Missing D7 Scenes: Season Six
by Laura Schiller
Summary: From fan mail to alien invasion, from crisis to laughter ... here's to a pair who supports each other when nobody else will.
1. Equinox

Missing D7 Scenes: Season Six

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Star Trek Voyager

Copyright: Paramount

_1. Equinox_

Seven stood in front of the shiny metallic holodeck doors. It was precisely the time and place she had agreed on with the Doctor for their duet session. _Just you, me … and a tuning fork_. She could still recall his arch, playful expression, the way he'd rocked on his heels and leaned just a little closer to her face. As if they were still singing partners, still mentor and protegée, still … whatever they had been. As if everything were normal between them.

She knew he was on the other side of that door, running his music room simulation – a soundproof room with a grand piano, as many other musical instruments as the holodeck database could produce, shelves full of scores, recordings and works on musical theory, and a window showing the most beautiful weather phenomena: sunrises and –sets, moon phases, soft snow or gentle rain.

One more step and the doors would swish open for her. They would sing together, laugh together (at least he would laugh and she would feel silently amused), and she would be as happy as a former Borg was capable of being.

So why couldn't she take that step?

Just as she thought this, the doors opened on their own. She flinched internally, although her body gave nothing away.

The room was rather darker than she had expected. Outside the window, which was opposite the door, it was autumn – the air was soaked with heavy, slanting rain and the usually green fields littered with soggy leaves. The Doctor stood in front of her, looking so obviously – so incredibly – the same.

"Hello, Seven," he said, with a shaky smile.

That same green uniform jacket with the silver commbadge and black shoulders. Those same black pants and shiny black shoes. The features of his face, homely as ever – wide mouth, deep wrinkles, sparse brown hair. Those hazel eyes. He was a hologram, of course he should look exactly the same. Yet it unnerved her, because he _wasn't_ the same. Nothing was.

Sixteen hours earlier, that face had smiled down at a restrained Seven in the _Equinox_ sickbay with all the warmth of a Terran alligator. That beautiful tenor voice had calmly, even cheerfully, described the way he was going to manipulate her cortical node to access information on _Voyager's_ security codes. _Her higher brain functions – speech, mobility – will be severely damaged._ He had sung as he worked on her.

She had seen the Doctor altered before – quite recently, in fact. A sentient weapon of mass destruction had hijacked his programming, and of course she had taken all possible steps to neutralize the thing, but her emotional equilibrium had hardly been touched. The weapon using the Doctor's holomatrix hadn't sung, or cracked jokes, or talked with his hands. It hadn't been _him_.

She nodded in greeting and entered the room.

"I've got the tuning fork," said the Doctor, holding it up and tapping a pen against it to make it chime. "Now, where were we?"

They went through their usual vocal exercises with an efficiency that was almost mechanical. The few jokes he made fell flat. Seven was rather relieved at first; at least she didn't have to puzzle out the vagaries of his so-called sense of humor or get distracted from the music. Two years ago, she would have noticed nothing wrong. Now, only her ingrained Borg manners kept her from throwing up her hands and shouting like Torres.

After a set of arpeggios, she glanced up – and knew what was wrong.

"Doctor," she said, "You have not initiated eye contact since the beginning of the session."

His hands dropped away from the keyboard as, with a sigh, he finally looked up at her.

"Haven't I?"

"Why not? You specifically informed me once that eye contact is important during social interaction. It establishes – "

He cut her of with an upraised hand. "All right! I'm sorry. No need to quote back at me like that. Quite frankly, Seven … this is awkward."

For some inexplicable reason, hearing that from him made it a little less awkward. She felt she could breathe easier. She was not the only one having trouble.

"I can't blame you for feeling … uneasy … at the sight of me," the Doctor continued. "After all, I nearly caused you permanent brain damage."

"I do not blame you," she hurried to say.

"I know. You already told me so."

"And you have already expressed your regret." She remembered him in Sickbay, shoulders bowed. _I hope you don't think less of me … It's quite unnerving to know that a push of the button can turn me into Mr. Hyde._

_The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde_ was a nineteenth-century novel about a scientist who had essentially spliced himself into two entities – his good side and his evil side. The Doctor had 'recommended' it to Seven (read: pestered and prodded her into reading it) and they had discussed the moral and philosophical implications of the story together. Seven had not expected to find a real life example so close to home.

"You … he _enjoyed_ it," she said abruptly.

The Doctor squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain.

"He manipulated my vocal processor while performing the operation. He forced me to sing 'My Darling Clementine' with him."

She didn't even like that song – which was probably a mercy, since if she had liked it, the memories evoked would inevitably cause her distress the next time she heard it.

The Doctor's eyes suddenly snapped open, glowering. "I _know!_ I was there, I had those disgusting thoughts and actions in my cognitive processors! I remember looking down at you, cuffed to the bed, trying so hard to reroute the commands along my subroutines and getting blocked by Maxwell Burke's _goddamned_ codes! Do you have any idea what that feels like, Seven? To be a puppet inside yourown body?"

Seven shook her head. She clenched her fists behind her to hide their trembling. She _had_ been posessed by several different consciousnesses once, due to contact with a Borg vinculum, but she did not remember any of it.

"I would never – _ever _– have behaved like this of my own free will," he said qith quiet intensity, standing up and meeting her eye to eye. "Seven … my friend, I swear - as soon as we've installed a security program for my ethical subroutines, no one will ever turn me into that person again. I will never hurt you."

"I believe you." She truly did. Whatever that other hologram with his face and voice might have done … this man was her ally, beyond a doubt.

"You were so very brave, Seven, not giving away _Voyager's_ codes. If you were Starfleet, they'd have to promote you or at least give you a medal."

Seven thought of the terrible effort it had taken, to stand at attention for Ransom and keep saying 'No' in the face of certain mental violation. In spite of her pity for the beleaguered man, with the premature lines in his face, who had committed these atrocities out of sheer loyalty to his crew. He had hated himself more than Seven ever could. Now he was dead, for the sake of his crew and _Voyager_ both, and his punishment was out of their hands.

Loyalty had kept Seven upright when nothing else could – to her Captain, her crewmates, and the memory of her best friend. She didn't think of it as courage – only the bare fact that she could _not_ have borne it if her own weakness had caused their deaths.

"I acted out of necessity," she said bitterly. "I do not desire promotions or medals."

"I know. Neither do I … although I wouldn't deserve one in any case."

She wanted to place her hand on his shoulder, as he had a habit of doing when she needed comfort, but she hesitated, wondering if it was appropriate. Would a hologram, who did not even have a sense of touch the way organic beings did, receive any benefit from a touch?

Regardless of that, the tension between them seemed to be gone – or rather, re-settled into their customary tension. Was it the effect of his raised voice? She wondered wryly. Perhaps one could conclude that if they still argued, they were more or less the same individuals – therefore, their strange friendship could and should remain intact.

"Why, Seven! Are you … _smiling_?" The Doctor's own face began to brighten a little.

"I was not aware of doing so."

"You were! I thought you had a bit of a smirk on your face when you challenged me to a duet, but … goodness gracious. You should really do it more often. It transforms your entire face."

Part of Seven was irritated – if he was going to have such an excessive reaction to every movement of her face, perhaps she ought to stop smiling altogether. Part of her was , this was unmistakeably the Doctor – no one else, not even the Captain, would be quite so delighted by Seven's emerging humanity.

"Computer," said the Doctor, "Play What A Wonderful World' by Louis Armstrong, instrumental only. Together now."


	2. Survival Instinct

_2. Survival Instinct_

Lieutenant Marika Wilkarah's torpedo tube coffin lay in front of the lily-wreathed altar, to be transported on hoverjets to a docking bay and jettisoned after the service. The coffin was closed, so there was no one to see that she wore her yellow engineer's uniform, just as she would have done, had she died aboard her own ship, the _Excalibur_.

The church was a place of sun-gilded wood and tall, rainbowy stained-glass windows, of a sort of breathtaking beauty that made even confirmed atheists stand in awe. It was a holoprogram, of course – Tom Paris' creation, to be exact; he was thinking of expanding it into a nineteenth-century Irish village – but it carried voices like the real thing.

It had been the Doctor's idea to hold the ceremony in a church. He had found out, while monitoring Marika during her final week in Sickbay, that unlike most Bajorans, she was not a follower of the Prophets, but a Christian. That explained why she swore by one God and did not wear an earring; it was also one of the few clues they had to personalize the ritual for a woman who had served among them for all of three weeks.

For the most part, since there were no ordained members of the clergy present, the ceremony progressed in standard Starfleet fashion: the Captain gave the first speech, followed by the closest companion of the deceased, and then others according to rank. In this case, Seven had relinquished the right of the second speech; after all, unimatrix or no, Marika had barely spoken to her over the last three weeks. Instead the lot fell to Crewman Tal Celes, a fellow Bajoran and engineer who had looked up to Marika as a teacher. She looked very young, red-eyed, her black hair falling out of its twist in pathetic disarray. Seven heard her speech, and the ones that followed, mostly in fragments.

"She was such a kind person … not bubbly, you know, like some people, but when I got stuck with an algorithm or analysis, she was always there to pull me out."

"Considering what happened to her, her strength of spirit was amazing."

"She had a wicked sense of humor. One hell of a temper, too, even … later on. It's hard to believe a woman like that could simply disappear."

"A fine officer and a credit to Starfleet."

"I wish we could have known her better."

Seven's turn came last. Accompanied on the organ by the Doctor, she stood before the congregation and sang with all her heart. She thought of Marika's last words to her, her final forgiveness. _You seem like the type to beat herself up for every mistake. Well, don't. If it hadn't been for you, I'd still be Two of Nine today._

She thought of the day she had decided to free her three Borg siblings from the neural link, giving them a month as individuals even at the cost of their lives. P'shan and Lanza had left; Marika, feeling at home on a starship, had stayed until the end.

Survival was insufficient. Life as a drone was no life at all. Seven understood that, and so had Marika. So did the Doctor; her best friend, her only partner. This song was for the three of them.

"_For what is a man? What has he got?  
If not himself - Then he has naught.  
To say the things he truly feels  
And not the words of one who kneels.  
The record shows I took the blows  
And did it my way." _

(Lyrics by Frank Sinatra)


	3. Barge of the Dead

_3. Barge of the Dead_

"Is Lieutenant Torres ill?" asked Seven one day, in the middle of her physical.

The Doctor, puzzled by the non-sequitur, stared for a few seconds before replying.

"If she were, I couldn't tell you. Confidentiality, remember? Why do you ask?"

"Ever since her encounter of an ion storm, she has been disconcertingly polite."

The Doctor chuckled.

"She has not shown hostility towards me for three days. She implemented every one of my suggestions for added efficiency. The last time Torres acted this way, she was suffering from clinical depression."

Even as she spoke, Seven realized how ridiculous her suspicions sounded. Still, the change rattled her, as changes always did.

"Granted," she corrected herself, "It is unlikely that a depressed person would be so overtly affectionate with her mate."

That was another of the changes she had observed: Paris and Torres were holding hands in the corridors, beaming, and exchanging flirty banter as if their relationship was a matter of days rather than two years.

"There's no reason for you to worry," said the Doctor, still amused. "The Lieutenant has had a very personal, very life-changing experience in that storm. That's all I can say. If you're interested in the details, you might try asking her yourself."

Seven gave him a look.

"Or maybe not," he amended. "In any case, she appears to be 'turning over a new leaf', as they say. Let's enjoy it while it lasts."

A sharp, female voice sounded from the doorway, making Seven and the Doctor turn around. "Enjoy _what_?"

With a warning glare at Seven, the Doctor improvised: "Ah, B'Elanna! Come for your physical? I was just finishing up here. We were talking abut … er … what _were_ we talking about, Seven?"

Torres was not fooled. She tilted her head and crossed her arms, hazel eyes flashing dangerously.

"If you tell her – or anyone – what happened, I'm not responsible for what might happen to your program."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Lieutenant," said the Doctor smoothly, waving her over to the next biobed.

Seven, who had learned her lesson with the holocamera incident, clamped her mouth shut rather than rising to the other woman's bait. She exchanged another look with the Doctor, this time an unspoken agreement.

_B'Elanna Torres, indeed._

Meanwhile, Torres herself noted the exchange with such amusement that it nearly cancelled out her annoyance with the pair for gossiping behind her back. Amusement and something else, for she hadn't even known that Seven and the Doctor were _this_ close.

It was like her visions, she realized. Her visits to Gre'thor, the Klingon Hell, in which the shades of all her shipmates (including her mother in Captain Janeway's uniform) had confronted her about her hostile attitude and her lack of respect for her Klingon heritage. Seven and the Doctor in those visions had sung _The Ballad of Kahless and Molor_ together, sounding more like one voice than two, standing side by side just as they were standing now.

Either her subconscious mind was one hell of an observer, or those visions really had been sent by Kahless.

Something to think about.


	4. Tinker, Tenor, Doctor, Spy

_4. Tinker, Tenor, Doctor, Spy_

Sometimes Captain Kathryn Janeway felt like she had a whole shipful of restless, fast-growing sons and daughters who all depended on her for guidance. If it hadn't been for Tuvok and Chakotay, she often thought she might have gone insane.

At the moment, there was the Doctor, still upset over his recent daydream malfunction. It seemed that even his real-life stint as an Emergency Command Hologram, complete with an equally real surprise party and a kiss from Seven of Nine, had failed to cheer him up completely. She would need to have another talk with him, make him understand that even if the senior crew _had_ seen his most embarrassing fantasies, there was no need for him to be ashamed.

As for Seven of Nine, that was a whole other matter. Kathryn surveyed her young friend with wry concern as Seven lunged with her pistol, missed the flying target, and went crashing onto the padded floor for the fifth time in their gaming session.

"Computer, freeze program," said Kathryn.

The saucer-shaped Velocity target paused, hovering in mid-air. Seven tried not to wince as she picked herself up. Blue workout suit dotted with sweat, blond hair hanging out of its twist in ragged strands, she looked a far cry from her usual perfection.

"Captain, I was winning," she protested breathlessly. "Please explain."

"One game out of ten?" Kathryn raised an eyebrow. "Seven, I do believe that's your all-time low. If you have something on your mind, why not just tell me instead of taking out your feelings on that hunk of metal?"

Seven tossed her head, getting one strand of hair out of her eyes. She looked down at her pistol and sighed, just a little bit.

"I'm listening," said Kathryn, softening her scratchy alto voice in a way that seldom failed to calm even the most prickly conversation partner.

"Captain … you have some experience with males."

Kathryn blinked. "Er … yes, I suppose I do."

Two engagements, a flirtation with an enemy alien, and a complicated friendship with one's First Officer should certainly count as experience.

"Is it common for Human males to regard every female in their vicinity as a sex object?"

Seven's sharp voice was sharper than ever, her full lips drawn into a tight line.

Kathryn, who still had the Doctor's daydream problem in the back of her mind, rapidly put two and two together. Seven had not seen many of those daydreams, but evidently enough to feel insulted.

"Actually, on average, men think of sex about every three minutes," said Kathryn. "At least when they're young."

To calm the shocked expression on Seven's face, she held up a reassuring hand. "But that doesn't mean they can't still respect woman as colleagues and friends, Seven. I've been in that holodeck too, remember?" She chuckled. "And I'm not offended. The idea of me sneering at B'Elanna like that was really quite funny. _'You … are dismissed!'_"

She imitated the Doctor's exaggerated version of her snarl, hoping to cheer Seven up. It did not work.

"Besides," Kathryn added, "I didn't think it bothered you. You even kissed him at the party, remember? Just after I gave him that medal of commendation. Exactly as he imagined you."

Seven – the ever efficient and sensible Seven of Nine – dropped her eyes and turned pink. Kathryn was surprised, and then amused with herself for being surprised. Really, she might have known. To her knowledge, Seven had never kissed anyone before, or even touched someone except out of necessity.

"A platonic gesture," Seven said, locking her hands behind her back and stiffening her spine defensively. She'd said the same thing to the Doctor, before stalking away and leaving the party early. A clear case of 'the lady doth protest too much'.

"You wanted to make the dream come true for him, didn't you?" she said, feeling a rush of compassion toward the younger woman. "At least a part of it. Even though you're not the only woman he dreams about."

Seven looked off to the side, finding it difficult to maintain eye contact in the face of soul-baring revelations, even to her mentor.

"That was not the only problem," she said, her voice softened in her distress. "He … his fantasies depicted me in such _inaccurate_ terms."

"Inaccurate?" It took all of Kathryn's considerable willpower not to smile. Trust Seven to take umbrage at that, of all things.

"I do not stand by passively while _Voyager_ is attacked. I do not threaten my shipmates with assimilation, even Torres. I do not exhibit my naked body, and I do not use phrases such as 'anything you say'. I … I believed the Doctor knew me better than this."

Kathryn touched Seven's shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting way. Her heart ached for her surrogate daughter; there was no way she could possibly make this easier. This was a trial everyone had to go through by themselves.

Not, of course, that Seven couldn't benefit from a bit of kindly meant advice.

"If it makes you feel better, Seven," she ssaid, with just a touch of between-us-girls mischief, "I'll tell you a secret."

"Proceed."

"When I get bored duing a long shift, I picture my bridge officers in their underwear."

Any other woman would have giggled. Seven, to judge by the twitch of her lips, came perilously near it.

"Captain! That is inappropriate!"

"I know, but it's fun!" Kathryn made up for Seven's reticence with a satisfying chuckle of her own.

"You see," sobering up again, "There are no limits to the human imagination. It doesn't have to be true, or appropriate. Sometimes we just need to … well, escape. And I'd wager a month of replicator rations, my dear, that even _you_ have had the odd irrelevant thought."

Seven's guilty face was all the answer Kathryn needed.

"So don't hold the Doctor's fantasies against him, will you? It's his bad luck that we had to broadcast them all over the holodeck. I'll do my best to make sure no crewmember's privacy is ever invaded this way again."

Seven nodded. "Understood. And Captain … "

"Yes?"

"I trust you to keep this discussion perfectly confidential."

"Of course."

With a brief farewell nod, absently reaching to undo the pins in her hair, Seven left the holodeck. Kathryn watched her go, feeling as if she saw herself from twenty years ago. Ensign Katie, desperately in love for the first time.

Confidential. She sighed and rubbed her face with her hands. She had had so many confidential discussions lately, it was getting hard to keep track of which secret to keep from whom. She'd had to bite her tongue several times during this convesation alone. It would be awfully tempting, if unethical, to spill the beans on everyone and let them work it out for themselves.

It was sheer diabolical bad luck that Seven's observation of the Doctor's daydreams had coincided with the relatively low number of Doctor/B'Elanna and Doctor/Kathryn fantasies. In consequence, Seven had entirely missed the scene where she played Brightman to the Doctor's Bocelli in a heartbreaking rendition of _Time To Say Goodbye_. Or the one where, with a miraculous feat of engineering, she saved his program from decompilation. The one where he slapped the Borg Queen on both cheeks, then deployed a nanovirus to de-assimilate every life form in the Collective, starting with Seven's parents. The firelit slow waltz in Sandrine's. The bouquet of red roses and baby's breath in Cargo Bay Two, with a card reading 'You are my sunshine'.

If Seven had only seen _that_, Kathryn's counsel might not have been necessary at all.


	5. Alice

_5. Alice_

"This ship," Seven remarked, "Appears to have a marked tendency for attracting hostile, sentient machines. The nuclear warhead, the Think Tank … the Borg … "

"Dreadnought," added the Doctor. "That was before you came," answering the questioning tilt of her head. "B'Elanna's work, during her Maquis days. Meant for the Cardassians, of course, but it ended up targeting an innocent Delta Quadrant planet. She had to beam inside the thing moments before detonation in order to stop it."

He rolled his eyes. "And now, a ship with a neurogenic interface, manifesting in its pilot's mind as an attractive woman. Alice, indeed! Hmph."

He tossed a glare over his shoulder at the sleeping form of Tom Paris, Alice's recent victim, ordered to rest in Sickbay for another day just in case.

Like an abusive lover, the sentient ship had isolated her new pilot from his friends and manipulated him into devoting every spare moment to her, even stealing emercency supplies for her repairs. When an angry B'Elanna had entered Alice's interior to investigate, Alice had cut off life support, nearly killing her. Finally she had forced Tom to flee _Voyager_, and if his two most important women hadn't saved him (his Captain by getting past Alice's multiphasic shielding, and his lover by calling to him), they might have seen the last of Ensign Tom Paris that day.

"Why do humanoid individuals so often anthropomorphize their posessions?" asked Seven, frowning slightly. "If the manufacturer of that vessel had not invented the interface to begin with, today's crisis would not have occurred. Why create the illusion that a starship, an inanimate object, is a sentient female capable of affection?"

The Doctor sighed, looking down at the tricorder he had been using to scan Seven for her weekly physical.

"Perhaps he was lonely," he muttered. "Who knows?"

Seven had no answer.

"Or perhaps it's just easier," he began to muse out loud. "To interact with an entity similar to you. That's why _Voyager_ has me, for instance, rather than something with a tricorder face and laser scalpels for hands. A human-looking EMH is more … personable. Not to mention audio interfaces on ship's computers. A computer with a voice is so much easier to argue with."

He chuckled, but his amusement faded as quickly as it had come. "The poor fellow who made that ship had no idea what he was doing. He should have added ethical subroutines. If Alice hadn't been destroyed, perhaps we could even have saved her, modified her program somehow to give her a conscience ... It's a pity. A real pity."

Trust the Doctor, thought Seven, to feel sympathy for a fellow artificial intelligence no matter what atrocities it committed.

"Speculation," she said, "Is irrelevant."

"Ah, you're right. As usual."

She slipped off the biobed, meeting him eye to eye. "My shift in Astrometrics is about to begin. Permission to leave?"

"Granted. See you later, Seven."

They nodded to each other and she left, hips swaying with precise elegance. He watched the doors slide shut between them.

He wondered: if he had been a pilot instead of a doctor, aand had come across a starship with eyes the color of a summer sky and a voice like cool champagne, would he have run away with her as well?

He tossed his tricorder up in the air and caught it again. It was the one with thirty perent enhanced efficiency, Seven's only gift to him.

"All right, little lady," he told it, "Back to work."


	6. Riddles

_6. Riddles_

"_I feel a sudden urge to sing the kind of ditty that invokes the Spring,  
so control your desire to curse while I crucify the verse … "_

The Doctor glanced up from the piano keys to grin at Seven. She nodded back, her eyes flicking over to the sheet music on the notestand so as not to lose the next line. She was standing opposite him as he played, holographic sunlight from the window bathing them both in gold. Even the piano, a black baby grand, shone like a jewel.

The song was 'De-Lovely' by Cole Porter, a classical composer of the twentieth century and the Doctor's latest favorite. Seven found the lyrics ridiculous, but watching the way her partner bobbed his head and beamed, she couldn't bring herself to ask for a different song.

A chime from outside the holodeck doors interrupted them.

"Come in," said the Doctor, breaking off the song.

The doors materialized in the peach-colored wall, opened, and revealed Tuvok, who shuffled into the room with the shy, wistful expression of a little boy looking for playmates.

"You're making music," he said.

Seven looked down at her sheet music, torn between wanting him to stay and wishing him to leave. Ever since the alleged Beneth attack had left Tuvok brain-damaged, her logical, dignified, controlled Vulcan mentor had been an altered being. She did not know how to interact with him anymore.

"Does Mr. Neelix know you're here?" asked the Doctor. Neelix, Tuvok's devoted friend and caregiver, barely left his side these days.

"He is working in the mess hall," said Tuvok. "I don't want to get in his way. May I stay here with you and listen to you playing?"

"I don't mind," said the Doctor. "In fact, it might even benefit your rehabilitation. The therapeutic effects of music have – "

Before he could wind up into that much-repeated lecture, Seven cut him off. "Com- Mr. Tuvok, you may stay."

Tuvok, looking strangely young in his raspberry-colored velvet shirt, smiled down at her and shook his head. "Just Tuvok, please."

"Any requests, then … Tuvok?" inquired the Doctor.

Tuvok tilted his head and frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm … I don't know … do you have any songs about friendship? Something I could show Neelix to thank him for all he's done?"

"Hmm … that's a lovely idea, Tuvok. Let me see … "

The Doctor browsed through his sheet music, pressing the button to flip through the songs over and over again. Seven watched the titles flick by until they stopped.

**You Raise Me Up**

Music: Rolf Lovland

Lyrics: Brendan Graham

March 26, 2002 C.E. / Stardate -

Tuvok put his arms on both their shoulders, peering at the screen. Even though the fabric of Seven's biosuit prevented a telepathic connection, she still found this openly affectionate Tuvok disconcerting.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, beaming. "This is perfect. Can you play this song, please?"

The Doctor looked up at his patient with a flash of pity in his eyes which only Seven caught. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, however, until the Doctor's face showed nothing but contented pride in his own musical skills.

"My pleasure."

This one was a slow song, the piano notes quiet and resonant. Tuvok came to sit on Seven's other side, making for a comfortable squeeze on the bench. He smiled and swayed his head as the Doctor sang the first verse.

"_When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary;  
when troubles come and my heart burdened be;  
then I am still and wait here in the silence  
until you come and sit awhile with me."_

A nod and a pointed finger was Seven's cue to join him for the chorus. She could guess what Tuvok had meant when he called the song 'perfect'. Even though the former Tuvok would never have used such a hyperbolical term to describe a trite and sentimental piece of music performed by a hologram and an amateur singer, there was no denying that it somehow fit.

"_You raise me up so I can stand on mountains.  
You raise me up to walk on stormy seas.  
I am strong when I am on your shoulders.  
You raise me up to more than I can be."_

At the second rendition of the chorus, Tuvok chimed in – hesitantly at first, then louder, until his warm baritone melded with the Doctor's tenor and Seven's soprano in a sort of magical alchemy. No one on board _Voyager_ had ever suspected that Tuvok could sing, yet here he was, surprising them again.

As the song ended, the three of them began to hear the sound of two hands clapping. They turned around.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Neelix, applauding enthusiastically, his round whiskery face lit up with delight. "Bravo, Tuvok! That was wonderful! I've been looking all over for you, I had no idea you had such a talent!"

He gestured for Tuvok to get off the bench and led him away, talking over his shoulder in Seven and the Doctor's direction.

"Thank you so much for looking after him. I hope he didn't disturb you. Now, Tuvok, I'm all done. We've got all the time in the world. What would you like to do? Play kadiskot? Make some crafts? Or maybe I could show you my new sundae recipe, it's delightful … " Tuvok's cheerful affirmative was interrupted by the closing of the holodeck doors.

The Doctor's smile dropped away like a limp rag. Seven, although her face did not change, felt the same.

"What are we going to do with him?" he muttered, as if to himself.

"Locate the Beneth, if possible," Seven answered grimly.

He sighed. "And if we do that, and _if_ by some miracle we can persuade them to show us a cure, he'll revert to being the most stiff-necked, repressed, logical pain-in-the-backside that ever walked a starship. Poor Mr. Neelix will get the cold shoulder, Ensign Paris will whine at me all day about the Commander's attitude, and that charming man we just saw will be as good as dead. It's a shame."

"_I_ valued the Commander before the incident," Seven replied firmly. "He was efficient, logical … more similar to me in his behavior than anyone on board. He was one of _Voyager's_ first crewmen to accept me as an individual. I considered him a mentor."

She thought of Tuvok in the ruins of the _Raven_, stooping down to where a terrified Seven had huddled beneath a computer console. Calling her with his steady, fatherly voice. Tuvok showing her an example of unbreakable defiance towards their Hirogen captors. Tuvok mind-melding with her in the chaos indued by the Borg Vinculum, guiding her out of the screaming chaos of her own mind.

"Although his current personality is – pleasant," she realized, thinking out loud, "I do wish for him to recover."

The Doctor nodded slowly, his frown softening.

"Well, Seven … in that case, as Tom says, we'd better get cracking."

"Clarify."

"I'll review Tuvok's files, see if there's anything I've missed, while you get back to Astrometrics to look for that Beneth cloaking frequency. We'll have him back to his old self again before you can say 'live long and prosper'."

"I will resume my research immediately. Computer, end program."

As the bright walls, the bookshelves, the piano and other instruments faded back into the hologrid, Seven and the Doctor set themselves in motion.


	7. Dragon's Teeth

_7. Dragon's Teeth_

"You had to look," said the Doctor, shaking his head. "Why do you _always_ have to look?"

Seven, immersed in an astrometrics scan, glared over her shoulder at him. He continued to hover by the doors, his chin propped up on one hand, scrutinizing her.

"I am Borg," she snapped. "I assimilate information. I reanimated Gedrin from stasis in order to question him. How was I to my action would initiate such a … cascade reaction?"

The nine-hundred-year-old Gedrin and his compatriots, the Vaadwaur, had proven to be a deceptive ally. Hoping for assistance dealing with this ancient race's subspace corridors (a promising shortcut to Earth), Voyager had instead started a war between the Vaudwaar and their old enemies the Turé. They'd barely gotten away and the Captain, while understanding Seven's motives, had nonetheless levelled a Janeway glare at her and warned her about the consequences of her actions. Still irritated, Seven had retreated to Astrometrics. The Doctor's comments in addition to this were the last thing she wanted.

Turning around to meet his eyes as he had taught her, she immediately regretted her sharp tone. He was smiling; not much, but it was there.

"You were curious," he said. "Ever heard the proverb 'curiosity killed the cat'?"

"I have no time for hackneyed metaphors, Doctor. I am scanning."

The screen zoomed in on a certain uninhabited M-class planet. She scrolled further, pointedly ignoring it. This was the world she had picked out for the Vaadwaur to build their new colony on, believing that she was helping to rebuild a civilization of peaceful merchants and scientists. Gedrin had spoken to her kindly, telling her about his late wife. The memory stung; even if the Vaadwaur did find that world now, no doubt they would use it as a base for conquest.

"You're disappointed, aren't you?" said the Doctor suddenly.

She nodded.

"Everyone is. No subspace coridors to use … no new ally … no chance to do good. Instead, we stirred up a regular wasps' nest and got away by the skin of our teeth. Oh, excuse me." He smirked. "Are my metaphors annoying you?"

"Yes," she said, making his smirk wider. "But I have come to realize that it would be useless to attempt to dissuade you of the habit."

"That's my favorite Borg."

She raised her cybernetic eyebrow. "You have not addressed me by that term since Stardate 52134.2. The day of One's conception."

That was a year ago now. She had wondered if he had stopped using the phrase because he'd come to value One more than her, but had suppressed those thoughts as petty and irrelevant. She would _not_ be jealous of the innocent individual who was the closest thing she'd ever had to a son.

The Doctor's hazel eyes were gentle as he regarded her. "I thought you could use a bit of … cheering up. That's one of the purposes of nicknames, you know. If you don't like it, I'll stop."

"No," she said automatically. "No, I … have no objection."

"Speaking of One … actually, I've been thinking of him as well. Today is his birthday, isn't it? Well … if you can call it that."

So he remembered as well. She had known from the moment her regeneration cycle had ended that morning, that there was something bittersweet about today. She had remembered One – how eager he would have been to learn from the Vaadwaur. He would have certainly beaten her to those stasis pods if he had been there. Their betrayal would have confused him, and she and the Doctor would have made an effort to explain. Not that they weren't confused themselves. Parenting, or so she had heard, made one sharply aware of one's own limitations. Even when the role of parent lasted for no more than a day.

Captain Janeway's intuition regarding One, that he would make a fine addition to the crew, had proven right on the mark. So how could they have been so wrong this time?

"Anniversaries," said Seven stiffly, feeling embarrassed by the wave of nostalgia catching up to her, "Are irrelevant. I do not understand the Human custom of recalling a particular event each time their planet rotates around its star."

"My favorite Borg," he said again, and this time there was more than amusement in his voice – something affectionate. "You're not fooling me a particle."

He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed as she picked it up.

It was a white candle in a silver holder, complete with a book of matches.

"You can light that in his alcove. How about it?"

Seven thought of a tiny light flickering in the alcove next to hers, where a newborn being had stood for one night. She'd had to tell him to regenerate three times before the restless young man would comply. He had thanked her then, for nothing in particular; for the mere fact that her nanoprobes and the Doctor's mobile emitter had accidentally brought him to life.

"Very well," she said, and placed the candle on the console next to her.

The Doctor came up close to her and touched her shoulder. For a moment, she wondered if he was going to kiss her on the cheek, as she had done for him to make one of his daydreams come true. But he withdrew, and before she could remember to even thank him for the candle, the room was empty.


	8. One Small Step

_9. One Small Step_

The hologrid displayed a computer console, a few chairs, and an enormous projector screen. It was the setup the Doctor often used when he wanted to review his collection of images. Currently the screen showed an expanse of red and golden lights, glowing like a sunset, interspersed with fragments of metal both clean and rusted, as well as materials the viewer could only guess at. The Doctor, standing before it, drank in the photo with wide, gleaming hazel eyes.

"Fascinating," he said. "Seven, thank you so much."

It was the Doctor's habit, whenever he was barred from going on an away mission, to entrust his holocamera to someone who was going. Seven was his preferred choice; she was one of few people who could be relied upon not to forget.

"You're welcome," she said, clicking to the next picture.

It showed Commander Chakotay, eyes closed, very pale underneath his tan. A flashing cortical monitor was attached to his right temple.

"Bumpy ride, eh?" asked the Doctor flippantly. As he had treated Chakotay himself after the mission, the image did not worry him.

Seven surveyed the First Officer's face with a mix of irritation and chagrin.

"The Commander insisted on retrieving the _Ares Four_ module," she said. "In violation of the Captain's orders. We came within seconds of being trapped inside the anomaly. As soon as the Commander regained consciousness, I reprimanded him … perhaps too severely."

He glanced over at her curiously. "What makes you say that?"

"His error was similar to the one I committed recently, in regards to the Vaadwaur. He was merely curious. I believe an apology is required."

A warm glow of pride in his student irradiated the Doctor's emotional subroutines.

"Very good, Seven. You came to that conclusion all on your own."

"Thank you, Doctor."

She moved her hand towards the arrow key, ready to show him the next photo, but her cybernetic fingers hesitated in mid-movement. The look on her face became far away, and somehow softer, as if she were forgetting to guard her expressions as she usually did.

When she did click, the next picture was dark. The bare outlines of a chair, a wall and an antiquated starship cockpit were shown. The only point of light came from a flickery vid screen, which showed a closeup image of a black, male, Human face. Lieutenant John Kelly, a hero of early space exploration, trapped inside a graviton ellipse during a Mars mission in 2032.

"It is remarkable," she said, thinking out loud in a very human fashion, "I have worked alongside Commander Chakotay for more than two years, yet he is still a stranger to me. I am surprised whenever he initiates a personal conversation. However, while listening to the log entries of this man, who has been dead for three centuries, I felt … as if … " She swallowed and looked down, overwhelmed by something she could not put into words.

" … you'd gotten to know him?" the Doctor concluded.

She nodded.

"He … never stopped taking readings of the contents of the anomaly," she continued, her eyes saying more than her word could. "He addressed his superior officers, his father, anyone who might find the module, although the odds were minimal. He requested that the data be 'put to good use'."

The Doctor tried to imagine it – John Kelly, dying, still fiercely dedicated to his quest for knowledge. And Seven, the former Borg centuries ahead in technology, watching him.

She had been so dismissive of the Ares module at first. The Captain had needed to prod her to volunteer. Now here she was, visibly grieving, although her eyes were dry. The Doctor touched her shoulder.

"It was very thoughtful of you to bring back his remains, Seven," he said. "The memorial service is at nineteen hundred hours."

"It was an impulse decision," she said, shaking her head. "I do not know … why I did it."

"If it was you, you would want your death to be recognized," said the Doctor. "If it was your friend, or your son … "

He saw a look of pain pass over her face. The anniversary of One's life and death was still recent, as were the deaths of her three unimatrix-siblings. How many more funerals would this crew have to attend?

"Besides, the crew really wants to pay its respects. Lieutenant Kelly is a hero to them, a part of the history we all share. That's certainly an occasion for a memorial."

Seven nodded, looking relieved; the Doctor supposed that she was glad to hear something articulated in words which she had been feeling on the inside.

"Agreed."

She closed the window for the photos, only to call up a search engine. She typed: _2032 World Series._

In response to the Doctor's inquiring eyebrows, she said: "An athletic competition, I presume. Lieutenant Kelly … regretted not knowing who won it."

The Doctor could not prevent a smile from escaping. Seven of Nine, looking up baseball scores from three hundred years ago.

_By Borg standards, that's the most irrelevant action I've ever seen you taking. Don't stop._


	9. The Voyager Conspiracy

_9. The Voyager Conspiracy_

"Doctor!"

Naomi Wildman barrelled through the Sickbay doors, threw her arms around the Doctor's waist and buried her head in his stomach. He barely had time to set down the test tube he was examining; it came within seconds of crashing to the floor.

"You gotta help me," she sobbed into his jacket.

"What's wrong?" he gasped, putting both hands on her shoulders. Her face when she looked up at him was streaked with tears.

"It's Seven! There's, there's something wrong. I saw her in the corridor and she looked at me, and it was scary and not like Seven at all, and you're the Doctor and her best friend so I thought if anyone knows what's going on … "

"Naomi, wait, slow down!" he interrupted, crouching down to meet her eyes. "Slow down. Deep breaths. You're confusing me. Now, tell me exactly what happened. Slowly."

Naomi took several deep breaths, her small chest rising and falling quickly under the corduroy dress. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose with a tissue from her pocket, and started over. Her voice still shook, but this time he understood every word.

"She asked me who I was _working_ for," she said, blue eyes wide with confusion. "Like I'm some kind of spy. She said something about my father being Ktarian, and the Maquis and the Federation, and then she said, _Go!_" Naomi raised her voice so abruptly the Doctor had to jump. "So I went. Doctor, I'm scared. Seven's never been like that to me. All I wanted was to show her the reports I've been reading."

Two more tears spilled out of the girl's eyes. "Do you think the Borg got to her? Did they assimilate her again? Or is she going insane like before with the Vinculum? I wanna know."

The Doctor, although his initial fears of life-threatening injury were calmed, was nonetheless alarmed. His diagnostic programming began to race, grasping for a solution.

"You're right," he said briskly,"That doesn't sound like Seven. Last time _I_ scanned her, she was within normal parameters. Have you noticed her acting strangely before this?"

Naomi frowned fiercely in concentration, her forehead wrinkling amid the Ktarian headspikes. She nodded.

"Uh-huh. Ever since she modified her alcove, she's been distracted. She had no time for playing anymore. She put in a cortical processor … thingy … that would download all of Voyager's database into her brain while she was regenerating. That's how she figured out about the fleas in the replicator."

"_Fleas_ in the replicator?"

"Yes. She went all Commander Tuvok and solved the mystery, like something out of a holonovel. After that is when she started acting scary."

The Doctor, meanwhile, was making some deductions of his own. A modified alcove. A torrent of random information inside Seven's admittedly superior, but only human brain. Her insistence on order, patterns, connections. Her display of suspicion and hostility towards Naomi Wildman, a little girl, of all people possibly the least likely to harm her. Good heavens, what _was_ that woman doing to herself?

"_This_," he said, rolling his eyes, "Is exactly why I don't let patients self-medicate. She's bitten off more data than she can chew, and it's caused her an acute case of paranoia."

Naomi's eyes went round again. "Is she gonna be okay?"

"She will if I have anything to say about it. Computer, locate Seven of Nine."

"_Seven of Nine is in the Shuttle Bay."_

"Well, what's she doing there?"

"_Warnng: unauthorized launch in progress."_

The Doctor and Naomi exchanged a worried look.

"Chakotay to the Doctor," came a voice through his commbadge. "Get down to Cargo Bay Two and analyze Seven's alcove."

"On my way. Doctor out," he said, snatching his mobile emitter with one hand and Naomi's hand with the other on his way out the doors.

=/\=

When Seven and Captain Janeway shimmered into existence on the blue-lit transporter platform, Naomi and the Doctor stood waiting. Both women looked a little drained, as if from some intense emotional moment, and their eyes glimmered.

As soon as Seven stepped off the platform, Naomi stepped up to her and shyly held out her hands. Seven hugged her, running a cybernetic hand along the child's red-gold hair.

"Forgive me, Naomi," she murmured. "Your parentage is irrelevant to the politics of the Alpha Quadrant or any possible conspiracies … I should not have spoken to you that way."

"It's okay," said Naomi, and this time her tears were happy ones. "Apology accepted."

Janeway watched the two girls, as they both were in her eyes, with an affectionate smile. She met the Doctor's eyes and nodded. _It's all right._

"I take it, Captain," said Naomi, drawing away from Seven to stand at attention, "That your away mission was successful?"

"At ease, Assistant Wildman. Yes, it was."

The four of them left the transporter room, Naomi following the Captain, walking with her hands clasped behind her back. Seven fell into step beside the Doctor, carrying her head rather lower than usual. She did not speak until they were inside the turbolift.

"Cargo Bay Two," was the first thing she said.

As they stood together in the small white cylinder of a lift, the Doctor fidgeted and cleared his throat. It was a question that had to come out, sooner rather than later.

"Seven?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"You never … you didn't suspect _me_ of harboring designs against you, surely?"

Seven closed her eyes. The data from her cortical processor subunit was still buzzing inside her head like a swarm of photonic fleas. It screamed for order, for some logical connection, no matter how terrible the results. But against that, she heard her Captain's low voice, trembling as she recited the stardates of their shared history. _All I'm asking is for you to trust me again._

Stardates. Cross-reference. Keyword: Emergency Medical Hologram. A host of them crowded into the forefront of her mind.

_Stardate 51003.7. Seven of Nine is severed from the Collective. __Her body begins to reject her Borg implants. The Doctor removes 82% of them, saving her life._

_Stardate 51652.3. The Doctor begins giving Seven social lessons. She complies grudgingly, but soon becomes interested despite herself._

_Stardate 51658.2. She is accused of delusions in the matter of her assault by the trader Kovin. The Doctor argues in her defense._

_Stardates 51929.3 – 51954.2. They are left alone for thirty-five days, entrusted with steering _Voyager_ through a Mutara-class nebula. Isolation takes its toll. They quarrel. But during a crisis, they function perfectly together, and it is his faith which prevents her from going insane._

_Stardate 52091. The Doctor's mobile emitter, Seven's nanoprobes and a stranger's DNA fuse into a 29__th__-century Borg. They instruct the new life form, One, as an individual. He regards them as his parents. When he dies to protect the crew from the Borg, Seven and the Doctor comfort each other._

_Stardate 52365.5. The Doctor suffers a breakdown over the moral implications of Ensign Jetal's death. Seven defends him from being reprogrammed, insisting on his right to resolve his crisis like any organic._

_Stardate 52647. He introduces her to the concept of dating. They share their first duet, "You Are My Sunshine", and a dance at Chez Sandrine's. She becomes angry with him for having made a wager regarding her. He assures her that he enjoys her company._

_Stardate 53016.8. The _Equinox_ crew takes them captive. He is programmed to become her torturer. She forgives him and devises a new code for his ethical subroutines, one only she can break._

_Stardate 53217.5. He daydreams about her. She kisses him on the cheek._

Stardate 53292.9. He had just asked her if she suspected him as an enemy.

"No," she said. _Not for a second._


	10. Pathfinder

_10. Pathfinder_

Lieutenant Reginald Barclay, member of the Pathfinder project and recovered holo-addict, was _not_ having a relapse.

Yes, he was devoted to getting _Voyager_ home. Being a lonely man himself, the idea of a ship stranded sixty thousand lightyears from home tugged at his heartstrings. But if that feeling helped him to do his job better, what was wrong with that? He had the perfect idea: using a class-B itinerant pulsar and the Midas array (through which _Voyager_ had sent its EMH about two years ago) to create a micro-wormhole and send a message to _Voyager_ through that. He could do it. If only Commander Harkins would listen!

As to his simulations of _Voyager_, extrapolated from the crew manifest, the news network, and the EMH's data, they were not a problem. Rather the opposite; these days his holographic friends were all that kept him going.

Reg sighed and closed his eyes as the Doctor kneaded his back muscles like a baker pummelling dough. He could feel the tension draining out of him

"Lieutenant," said the Doctor, "While you're here, ah … I could use a bit of advice."

"Go ahead," Reg purred.

"It's of a rather … personal nature. Have you had much experience with women, Mr. Barclay?"

_That depends._ Holographic women, certainly. Real women? Well … the string of unsuccessful blind dates set up by agencies or colleagues said it all. What woman would date a plain, stammering, socially inept bundle of nerves whose preferred conversation was about class-B itinerant pulsars? The only woman in his life was his counselor.

While was still struggling for an honest but not pitiful-sounding answer, the Doctor interrupted himself. "Oh, what am I saying? A brilliant gentleman like yourself, of course you have."

Reg had programmed all the _Voyager_ characters to like and respect him. After all, who else would?

"Reg," said the Doctor cajolingly, ending his massage and helping him to sit up on the biobed, "You see, I'm in a bit of a dilemna. Can you help me?"

"Anything," said Reg, smiling and spreading his hands with the easy confidence he wished he could posess in real life. "Fire away."

"Well … it's this way. You know Seven of Nine?"

"Of course."

"Ever since we liberated her from the Borg, she and I have … worked together a great deal. I give her social lessons to help her adjust. I've come to see just how … extraordinary she is." The Doctor's face became dreamy, his eyes unfocused. "Reg, I do believe I am falling in love."

Reg knew he was taking a great deal of creative license here. When _Voyager's_ real EMH had been debriefed by Starfleet Command during his brief visit across the quadrants, his description of their new Borg crewmember had been quite professional. He _had_ mentioned the social lessons, however (apparently the man had inherited his programmer's ego), and described her, when asked, as attractive. Reg, a hopeless romantic, had jumped to a pleasing conclusion from there. (Actually, he'd come within inches of making the Seven character his own lover, but that was a line he would never cross again. Not after that embarrassing fiasco during his last posting on the _Enterprise_).

"Congratulations, Doctor!" he said, clapping the hologram soundly on the back. "I'm happy for you!"

The Doctor's face fell. "But I haven't told her yet."

"Whyever not?"

The Doctor sighed, stroking his chin, his elbow propped up on one hand. "Well, for one thing … it would be unethical to involve myself with a patient."

"Doc, we're in the _Delta Quadrant_. All we've got out here is each other. Even if you picked up a native woman, she'd still be a member of the crew, and you the only doctor. Who _could_ you get involved with if not your patients?"

The Doctor shook a finger at him in agreement. "Good point … but I don't want to jeopardize our friendship."

"If it's a true and solid friendship, you'll get through it. Why, I – I knew a couple on the _Enterprise_ who broke up and became the closest pair of platonic friends on the ship!"

The couple in question was his counselor, Deanna Troi, and Commander William Riker. Those two were currently dating again; Reg had done his best to feel happy for his beautiful friend Deanna, but couldn't quite succeed.

"Suppose she doesn't feel the same?" asked the Doctor, looking despondently down at his black shoes. "Suppose she said no? I … well, even I'll admit that her manner is not the most diplomatic. She's liable to make a comprehensive list of all my flaws and hand it to me on a data padd."

Reg winced, feeling thankful that he hadn't programmed Seven as his lover after all. But, since _he_ was the author of this program, he happened to know what the Doctor did not: this version of Seven was head-over-stilettos in love with him. And a few well-chosen words from their good friend Reg Barclay were all that was needed.

He gripped both the Doctor's shoulders and gave him a firm glare.

"Love is always a risk," he said passionately. "It's a gamble, all or nothing, like poker. Only by making yourself vunerable can you achieve your heart's desire."

He would never, ever say that to a living person. It was far too corny. But in this moment and to this audience, it sounded like wisdom. And moreover, as he said it, Reg did not stutter a single bit.

If only someone had told _him_ as much, while Deanna Troi was still single. And if only he had followed that advice. But it was too late now.

The Doctor squared his jaw, eyes flashing with determination. He nodded.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

Reg unfolded his lanky frame from the biobed and nodded back at the Doctor. "Anytime."

The doors swished open and, with serendipitous timing, his holographic interpretation of Seven of Nine walked in. He had based her physical parameters on his own highest ideal of feminine beauty: petite, slender, but not without curves in the right places. Waves of brown hair pinned up in a fluffy bun, eyes dark as the richest chocolate, a strong yet elegant bone structure in her face, and soft, full lips. A Borg implant covered her left eyebrow; another glittered beneath her right ear. She wore a gray catsuit with pink grim and a deep V-shaped neckline, which drew attention to itself through the glinting of a Starfleet commbadge.

He thought he remembered something, vaguely, about the real Seven being a tall, blue-eyed blonde. He dismissed that thought. It was his holoprogram and he could do whatever he wanted.

"Computer," he whispered, "Objective mode."

"_Objective mode in place."_

This meant he could observe the scene like a twentieth-century moviegoer, without the characters knowing he was there. It was _not_ voyeurism; after all, they were only holograms. And if the scene got too steamy, he could always end the program … or not.

"Doctor," said Seven, "I require your assistance with a theory I have developed."

Her brusque Borg tone was decidely at odds with the musical sound of her voice. Perhaps he should have scratched the Betazoid accent.

"Oh? And what, er … theory would that be?"

"My research on Human behavior shows that the quality of life among our species is greatly enhanced by taking a mate. I wish you to assist me in the finding of such a man."

The Doctor's eyes widened and he fidgeted, hands clasped in front of him, looking almost like a smaller, balding Reg.

"Well, er … that's certainly a desirable goal, Seven. You've come a long way in your social development. But may I ask why you chose _me_ for this … particular … mission?"

She looked up at him with wide dark eyes. "You are my mentor, Doctor, and my closest confidante. I trust you as I trust no other person aboard this vessel."

Reg sighed, circling around so he could see her face.

The Doctor took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself for the plunge. "Well, in that case … Seven of Nine, I need to tell you something."

"Proceed."

"You don't need to look very far to find love. I already know someone – someone who knows you well, shares your interests, and doesn't mind your Borg manners one bit. Someone who's already stood by you through several trials and never let you down. Someone who loves you with every particle of his heart."

Seven's one visible eyebrow creased; she shook her head a little. "I do not understand … who is this individual?"

"He's standing right here," said the Doctor, and bent down to capture her lips in a passionate, tender kiss.

Reg, who didn't need to see any more, left Sickbay grinning like a loon. There was nothing, after all, quite as uplifting to the morale as a happy ending.

Speaking of which, he absolutely _must_ get back to work on developing his micro-wormhole plan. If it worked – and it had to work! – the real _Voyager_ crew would be one step closer to a happy ending of their own.


	11. Fair Haven

_11. Fair Haven_

Father Mulligan, a.k.a. _Voyager_'s Emergency Medical Hologram, loved his new job.

He loved the Fair Haven church, with the serene beauty of its stained-glass windows and the lilies by the altar. He loved the echoing sound quality of it, the grandeur of the great organ rolling through the nave like a melodic thunderstorm. And yes, he also enjoyed preaching, reading and singing to an audience that couldn't walk out on him.

"I'm going to read from Paul's first letter to the Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verses one to thirteen. '_Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal …'_"

He looked down from the pulpit at the upturned faces below: Tom and Harry in full nineteenth-century Irish custom, grinning to each other in the front row; Seamus, looking half asleep; Maggie O'Halloran, fresh and sweet as the flowers on her cart; Katie O'Clare (a.k.a. Captain Janeway) gowned and coiffed, sitting between Chakotay and Michael Sullivan. Tuvok, who found the Christian faith entirely illogical, was absent; so was B'Elanna, who 'wouldn't be caught dead' in a corset. Seven was not there either, and unlike the others, she had promised to attend.

"_And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries … if I have not love, I am nothing."_

Unless, of course, she had changed her mind. Would she come, or would she not?

"_Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth."_

Janeway's eyes flicked towards Sullivan. He squeezed her hand and smiled. It appeared that those two were back together; either she had stopped trying to reprogram him, or stopped feeling guilty about it. Either way, it was about time the Captain found herself a lover. Father Mulligan had his own reasons for supporting the match, ones which a Catholic priest really shouldn't be entertaining. If one woman on this ship could date a hologram …

"_It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."_

The double doors fell open with a gust of spring wind, a beam of sunshine, and a long, drawn-out creak. Seven of Nine walked in.

Father Mulligan's next sentence stuck in his vocal processor.

Her hair was down. Its blond waves brushed her shoulders and caught the multicolored light. She wore a dress as blue as her eyes, an ankle-length Victorian number with puffed sleeves, full skirts, and just the slightest hint of cleavage. Her skin showed above the neckline, smooth and white.

The dress rustled as she walked into the silence of the church.

She was here, as promised. A woman who believed that all forms of religious ritual were irrelevant and whose idea of God was embodied in an Omega molecule, and yet she was here. For his sake. Because he had asked her.

An organic man's hormones would have been going haywire by now – elevated heartbeat and respiratory system, etc., combining in a very visible blush. But he was a hologram and for that, Father Mulligan was devoutly thankful. Just as Seven sat down in one of the back pews, gathering her skirts, he managed to gather his scattered cognitive subroutines back together and finish his sentence.

"_Love never fails."_


	12. Blink of an Eye

_12. Blink of an Eye_

Marisa Tebreze could feel from the moment she opened the door to her apartment that something was wrong.

She locked the door, kicked off her shoes and put her plastic shopping bags down on the floor. She unbuttoned her black coat and hung it up. Her face in the closet's mirrored doors was winter-pale, her short blond hair dishevelled by the harvest-season wind.

"I'm home," she said.

Her voice fell into silence. No music from the radio or the memory-player. No sizzling oil or clattering pots from the kitchen. No footsteps. No 'Hello, darling' or welcome kiss.

But no – not quite silent. Someone was breathing behind the door closest to her. A breath like a sob.

"Jason?"

She edged open the door and there he was – her three-year-old, curled up on his sky-blue bedspread in a room full of stuffed animals, picture books, _Skyship Friends _action figures and a toy hammerharp (a piano-like instrument). He looked up at her with enormous brown-and-green eyes – so much like _his_. They could have been blood relatives, as many people assumed they were. From now on, though, there would be no more grounds to assume anything about Jason's paternity, because -

"Father's gone," he said, sniffing. "He was in the study writing something, and I heard a bump, and he was gone. His book was on the floor."

Jason handed Marisa a notebook which he had been clutching, one bound in blue silk whose pages were inscribed with the six lines common to their culture's musical notation system. Lewis had used it to brainstorm his compositions. They had been working on an opera together. Oh, stars above, what would the Director say when he found out his best tenor had vanished?

Marisa counted herself lucky to have a steady job at the Kellamain Music Hall, even if it did come with deadlines, demanding employers, and the pressure of an audience. Not every musician was so lucky. And since she had talked the Director into letting her 'distant cousin Lewis Tebreze' audition for the lead role in _Drums of the Ground-Shaker_, she had felt like the luckiest woman in the whole Central Protectorate. Apparently by now, it had run out.

Marisa sat down next to Jason and put an arm around his small shoulders.

"We talked about this, remember," she said, trying her best to sound calm and soothing instead of as miserable as the child. "It was going to happen someday."

Jason leaned into her, still crying. "Doesn't he like us anymore?"

"No, no, no." She kissed the shooting star on his forehead and ruffled his hair. "Don't you think that. He loves us – he loves _you_."

"Then why'd he have to go?"

A small voice in Marisa's head asked the same question, and it stung her eyes. She thought of the stranger who had appeared in the middle of a crowded street, catching her just before she hit the pavement. _Everybody stay clear. She's going into labor. Call an ambulance. Trust me, I'm a doctor. _He had held her hand all the way to the hospital, coached her through breathing exercises, and once they reached the maternity ward, barked orders at the doctors and nurses as if he owned the place. And thank the gods he had, because the birth had been complicated, and his quick thinking and medical expertise had saved their lives.

She had let him name the baby out of gratitude. He'd chosen 'Jason', a name she'd never heard before. When asked for his home coordinates, he'd claimed to have none. On impulse, she'd invited him to stay at her place until he found his feet. The rest was history.

She could not possibly have failed to notice something odd about her new roommate. He never ate, the sheets in the guest bedroom remained unruffled, and he bottle-fed and diapered Jason at all hours of the night. He had no personal scent. He did not know the name of their state, the neighboring states or their protectors. He did not know that Kenet was an alcoholic drink and not intended for babies (although she did take away the bottle in time). He never took off a certain metal device on his left arm. He was, in fact, a projection of photons and forcefields sent from the Skyship itself.

She remembered her indignant denials, her fear, her confusion. Lewis flickering like an image on a farview screen just to prove it. He had embraced her afterward, solid as any man she'd ever known, and she had cried into his shoulder until Jason woke up and joined in, and they had drunk warm milk and talked half the night. He hadn't used the guest bedroom since.

She remembered his wistful gaze up at the stars, his colorful stories about spatial anomalies, aliens, a crew of ordinary heroes fighting to get home. They had planned to immortalize his stories in their new opera. She would have to compose it alone now.

"Your father," she told Jason, "Is a very special man. He comes from a faraway place, and he's been called home. Back to his family. They love him as much as we do, dear one, and they need him. We've got Grandmother, Grandfather, Aunt Loren, my colleagues at the Kellamain and all your friends at the daycare centre. We'll be fine."

She said it as much to convince herself as Jason.

His father. Yes, Lewis would always be Jason's father to her. Tired of waiting for the perfect man, Marisa had gotten herself pregnant via anonymous seed donation. She'd been prepared to raise her baby by herself. The last thing she'd expected was to find the perfect man in a voyager from the stars, and then lose him to the stars again.

She thumbed through the pages of the notebook, scribbled over in a handwriting she couldn't read. The notes, however, she recognized – she had taught him how to use that system. And she remembered the lyrics of the songs from endless debates, endless practices.

Marisa had never asked him who the opera's heroine was, afraid to hear that it was not herself.

Her eye fell on the lines of a particular aria. She hummed it to Jason, hearing Lewis' achingly beautiful voice inside her mind.

_In silver halls she walks, the stars behind her eyes._

_each step a click, a dancing step, precise._

_I miss the lover's kiss she never gave;_

_her flawless face all innocently grave;_

_her voice, my morning chime, my evening lullaby._

_Who will be there to calm her when she cries?_

_When black birds swarm inside her tired mind,_

_Who will be there to help her knotted pain unwind?_

_Who will be there? Not I._

_Look down, my Light, from high above the clouds._

_Look down and search among the lonely crowds._

_I will be there, my eyes turned to the sky._

_We'll walk the stars together, you and I._

"I hope you found her," Marika whispered through her tears.


	13. Virtuoso

_13. Virtuoso_

Seven's fingers hovered uncertainly above the data pad in front of her. She was standing in Cargo Bay Two, surrounded by the familiar green containers and wires, with the flashing green halo of her alcove at the corner of her eyes. She was experiencing yet another 'first' on the road to individuality: her first personal correspondence. A fan letter.

She was not in the habit of using human idioms, but the expression 'writer's block' seemed oddly appropriate; it really did feel as if there were some heavy obstacle in her mind preventing her from saying what she wanted to say.

She had already said so many wrong things today. Her cutting remarks had nearly driven the Doctor off the ship. _'You crave attention, applause, fan mail. Such things are irrelevant.'_ He'd replied that on the contrary, these irrelevant things made him feel appreciated. Even loved.

She wanted to make him feel loved.

_Dear Doctor – _

The Doctor had told her that when writing a letter, humans use 'Dear' followed by the name of the intended recipient, especially if the recipient is a friend. It felt extremely awkward; she had never used this word before, not even with the excuse of human tradition. Dear. A term of affection used among friends, family and lovers. It did not sound like her at all; the Borg would never use such a word.

With a sharp command, she called her attention back to order. Fretting over the connotations of each word was unproductive and irrelevant. She must continue.

_I regret that your concert was not as successful as you had hoped._

She remembered him standing on that ostentatious stage all alone, subdued in a black tuxedo rather than the flamboyant, white, bobble-covered costume he had worn before. Putting his whole heart into every note of that old Neapolitan ballad, even while knowing it was not enough for the black-eyed woman watching him backstage. And the look on his face as the new singing hologram began to perform...he'd looked damaged. Crushed.

How could Tincoo do this to him? Flatter him, speak to him in that soft caressing voice ('I want to see you immediately...'), let him think she cared for him, and then publicly humiliate him with this 'improved' singing hologram? The Doctor was a person – artist, healer, teacher, friend. Not a tool to be modified.

_There are still those who appreciate _

...his medical expertise. His acerbic wit. Even his most annoying traits such as the overblown ego he'd shown with the Q'omar: giving away miniature replicas of himself like some vain celebrity. The pure joy and wonder lighting his face when he sang. His never failing kindness and support for her.

_your talents and admire you as _

...What? What was he to her? A crewmate and colleague, certainly. A part of her new Collective and therefore a part of her, to be protected and defended at all costs. Yet he was not linked to her as the Borg had been; he had his own knowledge, his own creativity, his own sense of humor and his own flaws.

Distinct. Unique. She found she liked that.

_an individual. _

For a moment, she was seized by the temptation to write the most embarrassing things: I cannot function adequately without you in my life. That female is unworthy of you. Promise not to leave me again. No matter if they were true or not, they would startle the Doctor and possibly even amuse him, as well as leaving written testimony of her succumbing to some of the weakest, most inefficient aspects of humanity.

In desperation, she fell back on a phrase the Doctor's Q'omarian fangirls had used. Hopefully it would provide a sort of closure to the message.

_I shall always consider myself your loyal fan._

Having ended on such a safe, businesslike note, she decided that an ending salutation, such as 'Yours sincerely', let alone the unstable warp core that was the word 'love', was uncalled for. She hesitated again over that 'Dear' in the first line, but decided to leave it in. She did not want to be accused of rudeness again.

_- Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One_

She read over her short message one more time. It was crude, it was blunt, but for a first attempt at a personal letter it was adequate. Also, thankfully, not too sentimental. And besides, hadn't the Doctor himself told her 'It's the thought that counts'?

He had always understood her better than anybody else, seen through her with his bright brown eyes and caught the truth of her emotions even when she hid them from herself. Whatever she needed – a physician's expertise, the support of a teacher, the cheerful warmth of a friend – the Doctor had always given her. Now that his own hopes and dreams had been shattered under the spotlights of the fake La Scala, it was her turn to be there for him.

Surely when he read this letter, he would understand.


	14. Memorial

_14. Memorial_

Screams. Phaser fire. Crouching, stumbling, running through the rocky tunnels of Tarakis Prime. Killing so as not to be killed.

_You can't do this, they're civilians! _

_Civilians with particle weapons._

_We had no right!_

_Why couldn't they just do what they were told?_

Seven flinched back and opened her eyes, shots still ringing in her ears. The metal object pointed at her glowed a baleful red, red as a Borg drone's ocular implant, red as iron-based blood. Someone clutched her shoulder. She threw them off.

"It's all right! Seven – Seven, it's okay … "

She knew that voice …

Looking around, she saw vertical orange stripes on a black wall, the other walls painted white. A smell of antiseptic. Starfleet officers clustered around the bed next to hers.

"You're in Sickbay. You and the Captain started hallucinating in Astrometrics and we had to sedate you. She's over there, still unconscious. You're going to be fine."

The voice was the Doctor's at its most calm and soothing. He watched her with concerned hazel eyes, holding up the blinking red instrument. Only a tricorder.

She let out a deep breath she had been holding without realizing it.

"The colony … I remembered … "

"I know. You're not the only one. The away team's memories have been spreading like a plague across the ship."

Ensigns Paris and Kim, Commander Chakotay, and Neelix had returned from an apparently routine away mission as shell-shocked veterans of a war which had no evidence of taking place. Seven and the Captain had been helping Chakotay retrace the steps of the mission in Astrometrics, and while reading the sensor logs of a planet named Tarakis Prime, the two women had been beset by identical memories.

"How is this possible … ?" Seven muttered, shaking her head.

She had experienced other people's memories before, in the Borg Collective, but it had never been like this – direct, visceral, as if _she_ had crawled through those dirty tunnels and tripped over the smoking corpses of the Nakan. More than this, these memories were triggering others – real ones, from her own existence as a drone. Jabbing her assimilation tubules into a victim's neck. Distorted faces begging for themselves and their loved ones to be spared. A dead drone being hauled through the jungles of Planet 1865-Alpha. Mama and Papa screaming for Annika to run.

"Seven." The Doctor's voice, once again, cut through her panic and returned her to the present. "Seven, stay calm. You're safe. I'm right here with you. Whatever you're remembering, it's gone."

Taking another shuddering breath, she broke eye contact and sat up. Instead of fear, embarrassment began to creep up on her. She was not one to fall to pieces; she was Borg – no, she was Human. She was Seven, anyway, and Seven was known by her shipmates as a strong and resilient individual. She would _not_ be weak. She would _not_ worry the Doctor any more than he was obviously worried already.

"I know," she rasped, clearing her throat to get the exhaustion out of her voice. "I am … undamaged."

"If you say so." His frown made him look, incongruously enough for a hologram, as if he had aged ten years.

"These memories couldn't be yours, you know. _Voyager_ has never been near Tarakis Prime. Our sensor readings show as much."

"What if … they _are_ my memories? Originating from an unknown member of the Collective and surfacing through my brain? It has occurred before."

The Doctor blinked. "Hmm. Now there's a theory … but no."

He shook his head. "No, that can't be the reason. There are thirty-nine crewmembers, at last count, experiencing these symptoms. They'd all need to have a Borg neural link with you, which they obviously don't. And there's no Vinculum within range either, to trigger any neural patterns from fellow drones. No, no, it must be something else. If we could only get to the bottom of it … "

He stroked his chin and began to pace, still frowning deeply, ruminating over the problem as if mere force of mind could solve it. Seven kept her eyes on him, finding reassurance in his familiar face, body and mannerisms even as her nerves continued to vibrate. She was Annika hiding under the _Raven_'s console. She was a woman with blood on her cybernetic hands.

Ensign Kim drifted over from where he, Paris and Chakotay had been looking after the Captain. He surveyed Seven with wry understanding; his slanted eyes were bloodshot, his carefully gelled black hair in disarray.

"Hey," he said to the room at large, "Do any of you know what day it is by the Terran calendar?"

Paris closed his eyes, his lips moving in calculation. Then he opened them wide and let out a snort. "Remembrance Day! Damn. It figures."

"Clarify, Ensigns," snapped Seven from her position.

"You tell her, Tom," said Kim. "You're the history buff."

"It's November eleventh," said Paris, rolling his eyes. "The First World War ended on that day in 1918. Highest death rate of any war in Earth's history, at least before First Contact. Four hundred years later and we _still_ haven't stopped killing each other."

"It's a traditional day on which to remember fallen soldiers." Chakotay's voice, though gentle as always, commanded their attention. "In most countries on earth, songs are sung and rituals are held to honor them. The symbol of the day is the poppy, a red flower which symbolizes both blood and the renewal of life."

Chakotay, who had been a Maquis, was handling the post-traumatic stress a little more gracefully than the others. Seven envied him.

=/\=

Later on, as she continued her interrupted shift in Astrometrics while trying to ignore the memories roiling at the edges of her mind, Seven was interrupted by the hissing of the doors and the sound of a child's voice.

"Seven? I brought you something."

She turned and looked down. Naomi Wildman, carrying a plateful of something brown, looked back up with appealing blue eyes.

"A Ktarian chocolate puff? I do not require nourishment at this time."

"But it's the Doctor's orders," Namo persisted, holding out the bowl so its sweet, fresh-baked smell pervaded the room. "He's busy, so he sent me. He sid it's his," with a fleeting smile, "Prescription for you. Because chocolate contains … en-dor-phins?" She paused for Seven's nod to show her she was saying it correctly. " … that will make you feel better. I know _I_ always feel better after eating one of these."

"Insufficient," said Seven, fighting back a tired sigh. She had no energy to reassure Naomi right now.

The little girl put down the plate on a computer terminal anyway.

"Neelix is acting just the same," she confided. "He's so upset. I was in the mess hall yesterday and he grabbed me … he was protecting me from enemies that didn't exist. Now he's in Sickbay, and he won't even let me visit."

Naomi's voice began to tremble. "He should know I don't blame him. I'm just trying to help … "

"Naomi Wildman." Before the child could burst into tears, something Seven really didn't feel ready to handle, she picked up the plate and the fork on it and demonstratively took a bite of cake.

She had never tasted chocolate before, considering it nutritionally deficient. The rich, melting sweetness took her by surprise. Once she had chewed, swallowed, and gathered her wits enough to say what she had meant to say, Naomi's face was already brighter.

"I appreciate your attempts to assist us. So does Mr. Neelix, I am certain. Perhaps … he also requires chocolate."

Recalling the Doctor's thoughtfulness in 'prescribing' the chocolate puff, Seven made a mental note to thank him.


	15. Tsunkatse

_15. Tsunkatse_

The Doctor, who had been keeping a wary eye on Seven and her Hirogen adversary from inside his office, sighed with relief as the Hirogen left Sickbay and Seven entered his office. She met his eye with that familiar look of mild iritation.

"As you can see, I did not require a phaser rifle."

He smiled crookedly back at her. "I was simply being cautious, Seven. As I'm sure you recall, the first Hirogen you encountered were not exactly friendly."

In fact, they'd wanted Seven's intestines for a hunting trophy. Her eyelids twitched, recalling the memory. He noticed once again how tired she looked; that shiny pea-green suit was soaked with drying sweat, as were her arm guards and her face. Her hair was unraveling. The bruises from her 'Red Match' with the Hirogen were invisible, thanks to the Doctor's dermal regenerator, but he knew she was still sore.

"This individual was … different," said Seven, watching the door. "I never considered him my enemy."

"Seven! He tried to kill you!"

"He tried to get _himself_ killed," Seven replied. "He has been an unwilling participant in these matches for nineteen years, separated from his son. He was seeking his own idea of an honorable death, and I … " She closed her eyes and shuddered. "I was chosen as the means to that end. He _trained_ me, Doctor. He provided me with the skill to save my life, and the Commander's. I did not wish to kill him."

She uncurled her right hand and showed the Doctor a white sensor disk, of the sort all Tsunkatse fighters wore at strategic points on their suits. Seven's suit was intact, so it must have come from the Hirogen.

"He gave you a gift?"

"A trophy, he said." She looked down at it and frowned. "But I am no hunter, and he is not my prey."

The Doctor remembered seeing Seven on the transporter platfoorm, crouching over the Hirogen's prone form like a serpent about to strike. Her hands raised high for the killing blow, her beautiful face distorted with rage. As soon as she'd seen them, however, her eyes had opened wide and that glazed, battle-blind look had drained away. Replaced with shame, confusion, and a tremendous relief.

After the sadistic killing game the Hirogen had put them all through, the Doctor would not have been surprised to see Seven kill this one. Instead she had offered her hand to help him to his feet.

There _was_ something of the hunter about Seven. He didn't know whether it came from the Borg, her other trials, or simply an inborn part of her nature. But he did know that her reason, her intelligence – and above all, her compassion – always won out in the end.

Seven moved to toss the Hirogen's sensor disk into the recycling bin in the corner.

"No, stop!" said the Doctor. "You shouldn't throw away your teacher's gift."

She frowned at him, then at the disk.

"Don't think of it as a trophy, if that upsets you. Call it … a memento."

She nodded slowly, then closed her black-gloved hand around the disk again.

They watched each other for a few seconds. She did not seem to want to leave, yet neither of them could think of anything to say. Awkward silences had been cropping up between them often lately, despite the Doctor's most assiduous efforts to fill them up with talk, music and even parlor games (Note to self: never play "Species, Starship, Anomaly" with a former Borg).

He had so much to say to her sometimes, his photonic heart ached with holding it back. How beautiful she looked even in her present exhausted state. How thankful he was for the mixed blessing of having to patch her up every time disaster found her. How he had missed her during his three years on the time-displaced world, and that even Marisa, though warm and sweet and the most long-term lover he'd ever had, was simply not a match for the friendship of this woman.

"You might want to change out of that Tsunkatse suit," he said – and cringed at the way that had come out. "Er, not here, I mean. In your cargo bay. And take a sonic shower, too."

She plucked at the glossy fabric with distaste. "I will. Until tomorrow, Doctor."

As soon as she was out of earshot, the Doctor leaned his head on his desk and sighed. She was forever walking out the door, it seemed; once he treated her injuries, his mere company was never enough to keep her. When they sang together, she referred to it as 'lessons'. She wouldn't model for him anymore; he suspected that had to do with his embarrassing daydream malfunction. Even the kiss had been a 'platonic gesture'. And, most recently, she'd chosen cataloguing a micro-nebula with Commander Tuvok over visiting a museum with him.

He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a data padd, intending to file a few reports to pass the time. Instead he came up with Seven's fan letter. He read it to himself in a whisper, a small smile growing on his face.

Such a thoughtful gesture at the time, considering how crushed he'd been after Tincoo's betrayal. Thinking to recapture his life on the time-displaced world – a fulfilling musical career, a cheering audience, a loving woman by his side – he had instead found himself discarded for an 'upgraded' version of himself. Seven's letter – short, formal and utterly sincere – had warmed him right down to his photonic toes.

Silence or no silence, she _did_ care.


	16. Collective

_16. Collective_

The Borg baby lay quietly in her crib, at last – after a feeding, a diaper change, and what felt like countless lullabies as Seven or the Doctor carried her around Sickbay. Seven sat down in the Doctor's padded office chair – gracefully, of course, but her Borg posture was all that kept her from slumping down in sheer exhaustion.

"I am unaccustomed to such a decibel level of sound from such a small being," she said, pushing loose strands of hair out of her face.

"Look on the bright side," said the Doctor, irritatingly cheerful. "She's certainly got healthy lungs."

She took a few seconds to remember just how true that was. If she hadn't beamed the tiny creature off the Borg cube just in time, she might never have breathed again, let alone screamed. One more life nearly lost to the Borg … Nevertheless, the sheer weariness in Seven's bones dampened her satisfaction a little.

"This situation is inefficient."

"Tell me about it." The Doctor sighed and shook his head. "Not that I need sleep, but having my nighttime experiments disrupted by little Miss Red Alert here is _not_ productive. And she seems to have an unaccountable aversion to Mozart."

"You sing _opera_ to an _infant_?"

He opened his eyes to their most innocently defensive look. "What? I didn't sing it _loudly._ I thought it might get her to fall asleep. Jason always – "

He cut himself off and turned away, absorbing himself in a test tube as if it contained the secret of the universe. A long silence stretched into the room.

"Who is Jason?" Seven ventured to ask.

The Doctor made an abrupt movement with his head, of the sort intended to be casual, but looking more like a fly had landed on his bald pate. "Oh, never mind."

"It is impolite to allude to a topic and then refuse to elaborate. Please explain, Doctor."

He lowered the test tube with another sigh, which sounded like it came from the bottom of his holographic heart. "Oh, I suppose I should've told you. No point in keeping it secret, after all. Do you remember Home – I mean, the time-displaced world?"

The word rendered by the universal translator as the English "Home" did not match the movement of the Doctor's lips. It was an alien word, the natives' word for their own anomalous planet; presumably all they could think to call it in the days before space exploration.

"Yes," said Seven.

He had been sent on a mission to the surface and accidentally stranded there … for three minutes of _Voyager's_ time frame, which equalled three years on the planet. He had been very closemouthed about those three years, but Seven remembered every hint he'd dropped. The apartment. The skyship-obsessed landlord. The female songwriter he'd lived with.

"Three years is a long time," said the Doctor. "I had no way of knowing when – if – _Voyager_ would find me. I had a life, Seven. A family. Something I'd never known before."

She had suspected as much.

"Jason was my … son. Adopted, anyway," he added self-consciously, knowing as well as she did how strange it sounded. A hologram with a son.

"His mother was Marisa Tebreze, my … roommate. Partner. Lover. Whatever you want to call it. We met when I delivered him – if I hadn't come along, the quacks at that hospital might have lost them both. Anyway, Marisa invited me to live with her and the baby, and things … developed … from there.

"He was a toddler when you found me. It's not that I was unhappy to be back, no, far from it! But … I never found out what happened to the two of them. I wish … "

After a moment lost in reverie, he seemed to catch himself and met Seven's eye again. She was wildly curious to know exactly what had 'developed', but knowing the answer would only disturb her, she kept silent. The baby, although long since severed from the Collective, had a habit of sensing other people's distress and signaling it with a shrill wail. Perhaps she belonged to an empathic species, or perhaps it was a universal trait.

The Doctor tiptoed towards the crib and looked down, his eyes softening.

"As I was saying," he continued, dropping his voice to a near-whisper, "Jason's taste in lullabies was somewhat different from this lady's. But when he slept, he used to button up his eyes just like that."

Seven came to stand by the opposite side of the crib.

"Individuality appears to assert itself early," she murmured.

The baby's eyes _were_ 'buttoned up', like two crescent moons. A Borg implant gleamed incongruously over her right eyebrow, looking almost too heavy for such a soft little face. In spite of the hardware, however, this child would _not_ grow up to work on a cube or answer to a numbered designation. She would know what music she liked, what clothes suited her, which foods were the most enjoyable. She would know individuality. She would be loved.

In moments like this, Seven's love and protectiveness was so intense that she felt it welling up inside her like a thunderstorm. She thought of the five elder children whom she had rescued, regenerating in Cargo Bay Two at this moment: Icheb, Azan, Rebi and Mezoti. She thought of their leader, so insecure beneath his arrogance, whom she hadn't been able to save. She thought of One, another lost child despite his appearance, dying to save her. She felt that way about all of them.

Looking at the Doctor across the baby's sleeping form, she knew he felt the same. He had lost Jason, just as she had lost One. They could not let it happen again.

But they could not keep her either.

"I do not have sufficient time available to monitor an infant," she said brusquely, backing away from the crib, reminding herself more than the Doctor. "I work duty shifts in Astrometrics and Engineering. As of today, I will be educating the five elder children. As for you, you have said yourself that keeping her here is unproductive – "

"Seven, I know." The Doctor raised a hand to silence her. "One more day and she's going to a good home. Remember?"

One more day until the Engineering crew finished constructing a crib with regeneration equipment. Seven herself would be assisting them tomorrow. Ensigns Golwat and Ayala had volunteered to adopt the baby; as with many interspecies couples who wanted children, they had been fighting a losing battle against genetic incompatibility_._ It would be a pity to take this chance away from them, just because Seven happened to love this child as well.

"We can babysit her," said the Doctor soothingly, "You'll be her Auntie Seven. Or perhaps not. No, you wouldn't want to be called by an inaccurate title. I suppose the other four won't be calling you Mommy either."

"Certainly not."

She wondered what he qas thinking as he watched her with that gentle look in his eyes. Was it pity for her, who had neither time nor skill to be a mother and was landed with five children anyway? Or was it because of her Borg implants, which they both knew made her unable to conceive a child of her own? (Even if she were to find a potential father, which was highly improbable.)

"Incidentally, Seven … "

"Yes, Doctor?"

"You do look … remarkable … holding a baby. I can see you as a sort of twenty-fourth-century Madonna figure, especially in blue. If you could let me take just a little snapshot … "

It was the first time he'd suggested a modelling idea to her since the day of his daydream malfunction. Since then, as per an unspoken agreement, they'd both avoided the thought of her at the mercy of his camera or pen. In her embarrassment over the sight of her own naked body, sprawled out under a spotlight, Seven had forgotten how satisfying it could be – knowing that _she_ was a part of the Doctor's creative endeavours, that which enabled them both to move beyond their programming.

She needed a distraction right now, to stop her from resenting the Ayalas in this illogical manner. Besides, holographic model babies could be programmed not to cry.

"I will comply," she said.

The Doctor beamed radiantly, for the first time in – how long was it? She counted the stardates since she had seen that particular smile. She really ought to spend more time with him from now on.


	17. Spirit Folk

_17. Spirit Folk_

_(Author's Note: Apologies to any Irish readers for the stereotypes involved. Blame Paramount, not me!)_

A storm was brewing in the village of Fair Haven. Metaphorically, that is, since the weather remained as unrealistically warm and sunny by Irish standards as before. In fact, it was gradually dawning on the villagers that their recent influx of visitors – some colored, some with pointed ears or ridged foreheads, and all of them with identical Yankee accents – was not precisely what they seemed.

Michael Sullivan, the bartender, was fair bewitched by his new sweetheart Katie. Mrs. Sullivan had (very conveniently) disappeared. Tommy Paris had been observed repairing a crashed automobile with nothing but a few words. Maggie O'Halloran, who was stepping out with Harry Kim, might or might not have been turned into a cow. It was all quite uncanny, and whatever it was, the villagers intended to put a stop to it.

"Now if ye ask _me,_" said Seamus, leaning back importantly in his chair at Sullivan's, "It's Father Mulligan ye should be watchin'. If _he's_ a Catholic, _I'm_ a cat."

"Oh, aye?" His friend Pat punched him on the arm, chuckling. "And what would _you_ know of bein' a good Catholic, then? When's the last time ye came to Mass without a hangover?"

"Often enough to know that _photons_ and_ force fields_, whatever they are, have no place in the pulpit!" Seamus retorted.

"He's right!" Colin agreed, downing a pint for emphasis. "Why, when I asked that fellow for his stance on transsubstantiation, he looked at me as if he'd never heard the word! Sure and what does he think he's serving in Church, if not the blood and body of Christ?" He crossed himself for good measure, to a loud chorus of agreements.

"Speakin' of bodies, gentlemen," interrupted Jenny, the barmaid, tossing her golden curls and placing her hands on her hips. "What about that Seven creature, now? Her that's joined at the hip with Father whenever he's not preaching?"

"Oh, her!" Seamus sat bolt upright. "That's right! Beat me hollow at ring-toss, that one did. Not bad for a lassie. D'ye mind that sausage-skin she wears sometimes? Don't leave much to the imagination, does it now?"

"It's _indecent_, that's what!" Jenny snapped, setting down the next order of Guiness with more than necessary force. "If ye ask _me_, any woman who dresses like that is no better than she ought to be. Certainly no fit company for a God-fearin' preacher."

The round of men nodded sagely, their eyes twinkling at the thought of a man with a vow of celibacy in the daily company of such a woman.

"And the name of her! _Seven of Nine,_ I ask you – what sort of parents would name their daughter for a number?"

"Idiots, I should think!" Seamus snorted. "Ah, but with a face like hers, I'm sure it wouldn't matter what her name is."

"Sure it was her _face_ you were looking at?" Pat smirked.

"Oh, but of course! Lovely … " Seamus mimed two round shapes with his hands. " … eyes."

At that, all four of them exploded into laughter, thumping the table and each other. It took them several seconds to realize that the pub doors were opening, and Father Mulligan himself walked in. Seven of Nine – _without_ the sausage-skin, to Seamus' disappointment and Jenny's relief, but looking stunning even in a plain blue gown – was on his arm, and the pair of them were so deep in talk that they barely paused to acknowledge Seamus and the rest.

"For the last time, Seven, don't worry. The baby's fine, thriving in fact, and the other children are certainly old enough to look after themselves for two hours."

"I should not have left them unsupervised … "

"Icheb is sixteen, isn't he? Practically an adult. Besides, what are commbadges for? In the highly unlikely event of an emergency, they have only to call the nearest crewmember for help. Now, my dear Seven, please try to relax."

"How is this holodeck program supposed to facilitate that activity? As you well know, I have a low tolerance for alcohol."

"Then it'll have to be the company. Look, we've been under a great deal of stress lately. Especially you. You deserve a quiet afternoon of sitting, talking, and not worrying about anything but which flavor of fruit juice to order."

He patted her arm; she rolled her eyes at him.

"If you insist."

They proceeded to order their drinks at the bar, leaving Seamus, Pat, Colin and Jenny dumbfounded in their wake. They exchanged pointed looks across their pints.

"Babies, is it?"

"The saints preserve us ... "

And they shook their heads and sighed.


	18. Ashes to Ashes

_18. Ashes to Ashes_

"Doctor, I need your help," said Mezoti, her Borg gravity at odds with the childlike sound of her voice as she walked into Sickbay.

"Please state the nature of the medical emergency," said the Doctor in his usualsing-song tone, expecting a scratch or a headache or some minor injury. Instead Mezoti's eyes darted furtively to the door.

"You saved Six's life – I mean Gemma Ayala's," referring to the Borg baby rescued along with her. "You removed our implants. I trust you. Will you protect me from Seven when she comes?"

"Protect you? But what – "

Before the Borg child could answer, the doors slid open again and the precise step of Seven's high-heeled shoes sounded on the carpeting.

"Mezoti."

_Say what you like about Seven as a guardian_, the Doctor thought with secret amusement, _her 'you're-in-trouble-young-lady' tone is already perfect._

Mezoti whirled, fists clenched at her sides. "Yes?"

"Commander Tuvok has informed me that during his meditation session in Holodeck Two, the monks' prayers in the Temple of T'Paneth had been replaced by Ferengi limericks. Upon ending the program, he discovered Ensign Harry Kim – and _you._ Explain yourself."

Ferengi limericks? The Doctor had to turn away to hide a snicker.

"It was Harry's idea!" Mezoti retorted. "I didn't know I was breaking any rules and the prank didn't work anyway. The Commander didn't even smile." She threw a beseeching look at the Doctor over her shoulder.

"Ensign Kim … !" Seven raised her eyes to the ceiling. "I will – "

"Now, Seven, calm down." The Doctor, seeing his chance, placed a soothing hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and went pacing through the room; he followed her.

"You're overreacting, Seven. Nobody was hurt, remember? Even Tuvok's dignity came through unscathed. It was a harmless prank, that's all."

"I do _not_ approve of the crew interfering with the children's education!" Seven grumbled. "Mr. Neelix. Commander Chakotay. Commander Tuvok. And now, Ensign Kim! I am inundated with contradictory advice, and unable to follow it."

The Doctor, who knew just how difficult it was for Seven to admit that, felt deeply sympathetic. Sometimes, especially since last year's crisis with the _Equinox_, he had to wonder what was going on in Captain Janeway's head. Why entrust three children and one adolescent, all exceptionally troubled, to a woman with next to no parenting experience? Even the Borg connection could only go so far.

He touched her arm again, and this time she did not draw away.

"On Earth they have a saying," he said. _"It takes a village to raise a child_. Or a starship crew, in this case. Naomi's turning out decently, in spite of 'interference' as you call it. Why not these children as well?"

Mezoti watched them silently, her gray eyes wide with apprehension; no doubt she felt that the tension in the room was her fault.

"But he looked so sad," she piped up, breaking the silence.

Seen and the Doctor turned to look.

"Harry, I mean. He misses his friend who went away. Making Tuvok laugh was her idea. He said this belonged to her, but she wouldn't mind me having it. May I keep it?"

She took a wooden hair brush out of her dress pocket and held it up. The Doctor remembered Ensign Ballard, the brush's former owner, who had been so delighted with her new crop of auburn hair, only to lose it again when the Kobali caught up with her. She wouldn't need that brush anymore. She had left the ship for good.

Glancing at Seven, he found all the vexation draining from her face. She took two small steps towards Mezoti.

"You were experiencing compassion," she said. "Towards Mr. Kim. The ability to share, and the wish to alleviate, the distress of another individual. After I was severed from the Collective, it took me several months to learn what you, Mezoti, have achieved today."

"Is … that a good thing?" Mezoti asked, looking up at Seven with the wary expression of a small animal facing a predator.

Seven crouched down to Mezoti's eye level and, very gently, closed the child's fingers around the handle of Lyndsay Ballard's hairbrush.

"Yes."

Mezoti smiled. "So you're not going to implement a punishment protocol?"

"I will not. You did not intend to transgress any rules, and were acting on the instructions of an adult. However, you do need to apologize to Commander Tuvok. Vulcans may not express emotions, but they certainly posess them. You and Mr. Kim have annoyed him considerably."

Mezoti's shoulders slumped. "I guess we did … "

"I shall accompany you." Seven straightened up. "Afterwards, before we regenerate, I will demonstrate the use of this hairbrush. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Mezoti nodded, every bit as dignified as her foster-mother.

Seven turned around to give the Doctor an appreciaive look. "Thank you for your advice, Doctor."

"And for defending me," Mezoti chimed in.

"You're both very welcome," the Doctor said warmly. "And Seven … you'll make a fine guardian. I can already see it."

Seven's full lips turned up just the tiniest bit as she nodded.


	19. Child's Play

_19. Child's Play_

"Twenty-one-hundred hours," Seven announced. "I am going to regenerate. Will you join me?"

Icheb turned away from the Astrometrics wallscreen to nod to her.

Ever since rescuing him for the second time, his guardian had made a point of asking, rather than giving orders. Icheb appreciated that; it meant her actions followed her principles (_"You can make your own destiny"_) even at the most mundane, everyday level. However, his native logic and his Borg programming agreed tonight: studying in a state of fatigue was decidedly inefficient.

As they walked down the corridor in step, Icheb took several sideways glances at Seven. The first time he'd seen her in the wreck of the cube, her blonde hair had reminded him of his mother – one of his few memories from before assimilation was of Yifay working in the kitchen, her back turned, sunlight gilding her hair. Seven, however, had turned to face him – and so much more.

She had corrected the malfunction in his sub-vocal processor. She had decoded their message from the Borg Collective, but instead of deactivating all the children like a proper drone, she had offered them a new life on _Voyager._ She had saved the baby. She had done everything to ensure Icheb's well-being on Brunali, and later to rescue him when the horrible truth was revealed.

Leucon and Yifay saw him as a tool, a genetically engineered weapon to kill the Borg. Seven saw him as an individual. There was no doubt in Icheb's mind as to where his loyalty lay.

When they reached Cargo Bay Two, an extraordinary scene met their eyes. Instead of standing in their alcoves, Azan, Rebi, Mezoti and Naomi were sitting on the floor. The twins were leaning against a cargo container, shoulder to shoulder, identical looks of fascination on their faces; Naomi Wildman was braiding Mezoti's hair. All their faces were turned towards the Doctor, who was perched on a barrel and talking a lightyear a minute.

" – so as soon as _Voyager_ cleared the nebula and I was reactivated, I beamed to Seven's location as fast as a transporter beam could carry me. There she was, unconscious and oxygen-deprived, crumpled up in a corner of the room. Believe it or not, she'd rerouted power from every system aboard to keep the stasis chambers running – _including_ life support. She'd saved the entire crew at her own risk."

The Doctor's dramatic pause was interrupted by an eager Mezoti: "But you saved her!"

"Of course. Re-established life support on all decks, scooped her up and beamed back to Sickbay. As soon as she was stabilized, I started opening the stasis chambers. Safe and sound, every one of them – even Ensign Paris, the incurable sleepwalker, who was as much trouble in stasis as when he's awake."

The children laughed – actually laughed. Even Icheb surprised himself with a smile; he had met Ensign Paris, and could well believe that not even stasis could dampen the helmsman/medic's restless energy.

The Doctor, looking around triumphantly after that successful ending, caught sight of Seven and Icheb in the doorway. His grin melted into a sheepish sort of smile.

"Explain," said Seven.

"I've just been telling them a bedtime story," said the Doctor. "It's a Human tradition. And they enjoyed it, didn't you, children?"

"Affirmative," the twins chorused.

"Is it true?" asked Mezoti, getting up and rushing towards Seven.

"Of course it's true, I was there – well, sorta," said Naomi.

"How do you know? _You_ weren't even awake!"

Icheb's curiosity woke up. "When did this happen, Seven? Why was the rest of the crew in stasis? To which class did the nebula belong?"

"You see, Doctor?" said Seven, striding through the small hurricane of children to throw her colleague a reproachful look. "You have excited them. Heightened adrenaline levels are incompatible with the alcoves' systems."

"We like being excited," said Azan and Rebi, their faces expressionless as ever.

"We are proud to know – "

" – how brave and resourceful our guardians are."

"You see, Seven?" said the Doctor, sounding both smug and affectionate. "They've said it best. Help me off this thing, will you please?"

He held up both hands. Seven walked over and pulled him to his feet, in a gentle manner Icheb hadn't quite expected to see. She held on to the Doctor's hands for 2.5 seconds more, dropped them abruptly, and stepped back.

The younger children hadn't noticed; Icheb decided that now was not the time to ask. Interpersonal relationships were still a mystery to him; for all he knew, that unnecessary touch could have a hundred possible reasons. Or none at all.

"Computer, lights off," said Seven, turning away from the Docor and stepping up into her alcove. "Goodnight, children."

The tone of her 'goodnight' left no doubt that, regardless of adrenaline levels, it was time for them all to regenerate.

"Goodnight, Seven," said Icheb, in unison with his foster-siblings.

With the emergency lights on, he could still make out the Doctor's uniformed figure, along with a small pink-and-orange shadow that was Naomi, leaving the Cargo Bay. Naomi, not being Borg, needed to get back to her mother's quarters; the Doctor to his Sickbay.

The light streaming in through the opening doors showed the Doctor turning back; though he spoke to all of them, his eyes settled on Seven.

"Sweet dreams," he whispered.

As Icheb closed his eyes and gave in to the regeneration mechanism, his last conscious thought was of contentment. All the family he wanted was right here.


	20. Good Shepherd

_20. Good Shepherd_

"Celes … hey … Celes, wake up."

Tal Celes groaned as Billy Telfer's familiar whisper woke her up. She groped for her commbadge, grumbling incoherently when her hand met only empty air.

"I'm right here," said Billy, his voice touched with laughter. A warm hand caught hold of hers in the dark. She sat up.

"What the – computer, lights!"

The abrupt flash of the lights made her squeeze her eyes shut. When she squinted them open, Billy was standing over her bed with a smile – except that it wasn't _her_ bed. The walls in her quarters were gray, not white, and they didn't smell like disinfectant. Billy wore a navy blue medical gown, and – looking down at herself – so did she. They were in Sickbay.

Right. The away mission. The dark matter comet. Squinting, she could make out two humanoid shapes in the beds next to hers.

"How's the Captain? And Harren?" The last thing she remembered was the four of them in the _Delta Flyer_, hurtling toward an enormous bright light. If anything had happened to them …

"They're doing good. Sleeping. A little less used to midnight conversations, I guess."

"_You_ shouldn't even be up," she accused him.

Billy had come off worst in their adventure; a dark matter centipede crawling through one's body was _not_ their idea of a good team-building exercise. To be fair, the Captain obviously hadn't meant for that to happen.

"I'm fine," said Billy, spreading his hands and pacing around Celes's biobed. "See? I can walk."

"You sure?" As long as they had known each other – which was since their first year at Starfleet Academy – Billy had relied on Celes to talk him out of his fits of hypochondria as much as she'd relied on him to help her study. That creature must have really shaken him up; since it was gone, it had made all his other fears and worries look quite harmless in comparison.

"I'm sure. What I meant to say is – look. I found something." Billy picked up something from a table behind him and held it up, grinning mischievously.

"The Doctor's camera? So what?"

"It's active – and the memory files are open."

"Put that back!" she hissed, climbing out of bed and wrapping the sheets around herself, as the flimsy gown made her shiver. "What if he walks in on us?"

"He's deactivated. Seriously, Celes, you have to see this. It's awesome."

She made a grab for the camera; he spun away, muffling a laugh behind his hand for the sake of the other patients.

"Okay, okay!" She caught him by the shoulder and stood on tiptoe behind him to peer at the camera. "What is it I just _have_ to see, Snoopy?"

He clicked on one of the thumbnail pictures in the menu, enlarging it to fill the whole screen. It was a photo of Seven of Nine posing with Naomi and the Borg children at _Voyager_'s first Annual Science Fair.

"Cute, but what about it?"

"That's not all."

He clicked back. Seven and Mezoti bending over a terrarium. Seven and Icheb with his new gravimetric array. Seven in Sickbay, holding baby Gemma. _Voyager's_ full complement of ex-Borg regenerating in their alcoves, eyes closed, faces serene.

Click. Click. Seven eating with a smiling Naomi in the mess hall. Seven in Astrometrics, silhouetted against a glowing purple nebula. Seven next to the Captain, with paper garlands and a jukebox in the background – last year's Prixin festival. Seven in church, her face touched by multicolored lights from a stained-glass window. Seven as a science ensign, Borg implants photoshopped out. Seven on the Fair Haven cliffs, blue skirts billowing in the wind along with her unpinned hair. Seven with a star-filled viewport behind her. Seven in endless variations, all impossibly beautiful.

"Oh, _Prophets,_" exclaimed Celes in a horrified whisper. "There are dozens! Is he in love with her or something?"

"That was my guess too. What? You look like you're gonna throw up."

"No, no, I'm fine. It's just … that's my commanding officer, remember?" She jabbed at the camera with one finger. "Seven of Nine. _Voyager's_ own personal Borg Queen. Bane of my existence. What could he possibly see in her?"

"Well, she _is_ sex on legs, for one thing. Ow!" He rubbed the placed on his arm where she had punched him. "And they have music in common. Remember Lieutenant Marika's funeral when they sang together?"

Celes nodded. The dying Bajoran ex-Borg had endeared herself to many crewmembers in spite of the brevity of her life there; Seven's respectful dignity on that occasion was one of Celes' few positive images of her boss.

"But she's so …impossible_,_" Celes argued, knowing she sounded childish but unable to come up with a better word. "_'Celes is unreliable',_" she mimicked, standing at stiff attention and looking down the ridges of her nose." '_Celes could put our lives at risk'. _She's _never_ satisfied, _always _complaining, and if anyone dares to call her out on her behavior, she shoots them down with her favorite word, _irrelevant. _I know she was a drone, but come on! It's been two nd a half years. If she hasn't learned how to be decent by now, she must've been born this way."

"I know, Celes. I've heard it all before," said Billy, with exaggerated patience.

"And she can't even get my name right. It's Crewman Tal to her, darn it." She pointed to her earring, engraved with the Tal family symbol. "Only _you_ get to call me Celes. You'd think she's assimilated enough Bajorans to know that, unless she just doesn't care."

"Did you ever bother to correct her?" said Billy, with a pointed lift of one eyebrow.

"Um … no. Like I said, she'd call it irrelevant."

"Try it and see. Anyone the Doctor loves _must_ have some hidden depths. Look at how she is with the children in those pictures."

Billy had liked and respected the ship's EMH from the beginning, even in the latter's most difficult early stages. His parents were old colleagues of Lewis Zimmerman, so the familiar face and voice were like a piece of home. The Doctor never tired of scanning him, reassuring him of his perfect health and advising him on everything from duty shifts to his love life. Celes knew all this, and shook her head.

"I can't see it. It could never work. Friends make the worst lovers … it's too horrible when it ends."

Her last words came out barely audible, spoken more to herself than to Billy. He heard them anyway, and placed two fingers under her chin so their eyes could meet.

"Hey, Celes … are we still talking about Seven and the Doctor?"

She swallowed hard, feeling a blush rise on her cheeks. There was nowhere to look but at his kind, confused, beautiful face. The face of a man she had loved for the past ten years, and come so close – so close! – to losing forever.

"O-of course. Who else?"

"Right." His tone was of affectionate irony, an _I-know-you-better-than-that_ sort of voice. "Well, what if it doesn't end?"

"Everything ends, Billy." What was he talking about? He _couldn't_ be saying what it sounded like, not unless this was a dream or some alternate universe.

"Since when are _you_ the pessimist in this team, Celes? I thought that was my job." He stroked her cheek with his thumb, smiling down at her.

"Are you - what - you couldn't possibly feel that way about _me._"

Slow, timid, mousy Tal Celes. Self-doubt had become such a habit with her that it took real effort to see herself differently. She was the woman whom nobody trusted with the important tasks, the dunce of her department. But as of lately, she was also the woman who'd calmed down a victim of bodily invasion, taken steps that saved the lives of her shipmates, argued with her Captain - and _won_. And also, apparently, a woman who was loved.

"I get so tired," Billy said tenderly, "Of hearing you put youself down. What does it take to convince you how utterly _amazing_ you are?"

Before she could speak a word or pull away, his arms were circling her and his lips touching hers …

"_A-hem_."

The sound of a gravelly female voice made them jump apart. It was Captain Janeway herself, sitting up, looking more sleepy and dishevelled than any lowly Crewman had the right to see her – but not one iota less formidable.

"Captain!"

"How long were you awake?"

"We're so sorry!"

"At ease, Crewmen," Janeway rasped. "When it comes to fraternization among this crew, my policy is _'Don't ask, don't tell'_. However, Ms. Tal ... "

"Yes ma'am?"

Janeway winked. "That looked plenty convincing to me."


	21. Live Fast and Prosper

_21. Live Fast and Prosper_

" – and so I told them, _I think you've mistaken me for someone else_ - clicked my mobile emitter and dropped the disguise. You should have seen the looks on their faces! It was brilliant!"

The Doctor hugged himself and wagged his head from side to side, grinning at the memory in a way that not even Seven's most disapproving glare could prevent. He had been telling her, over nutritional supplements in the mess hall, exactly how he had taken part in the Captain's scheme to out-gambit a trio of confidence artists posing as Starfleet officers. Being a hologram, it had been an easy matter for the Doctor to transform into a replica of their leader Dala and convince her accomplices to show him where the loot was hidden. As usual, the Doctor was basking in his own cleverness; also as usual, Seven did not approve.

"That was a dangerous endeavour, Doctor. What if they had attacked you?"

"Oh, they did. I'm invulnerable, remember? One of the pleasanter effects of being made of photons and forcefields."

"Your mobile emitter is not." The very idea of the Doctor's program being damaged, lost or stolen had her agitated and sounding sharper than ever.

"What if they had recognized you as an impostor?"

"Why would they? I was identical to Dala in every respect."

"Your characteristic gestures might have given you away."

"What do you mean?" asked the Doctor, puzzled.

"Whenever you feel particularly pleased with yourself, Doctor, you fold your arms and tilt your head. I have observed this on many occasions. It is typical for you."

For a moment, the Doctor looked taken aback. He blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open. Then he smiled in a diffident, embarrassed way, ducking his head.

"Ah … I do that, don't I? You're right. But hey, maybe Dala does it too."

"Perhaps."

"I had no idea you observe me so closely, Seven."

Now it was her turn to be embarrassed. She had his body language memorized: there was the hand to the forehead when he was unhappy; the eye-rolling when he was annoyed; the sweeping arm gestures when he was carried away by his own singing; the endless variations in his smiles. And even now, he still surprised her sometimes.

"I posess superior visual acuity, Doctor. Due to the ocular implant you installed."

"Hmm … visual acuity, is it?" The embarrassed smile turned to a sly smirk. His eyes flicked towards the galley counter, where Neelix was handing out servings of tarra nut soufflé with a more-than-usually jovial attitude. "Well, Seven, how would you like to put that to the test? Mr. Neelix and Ensign Paris introduced me to a fascinating game the other day."

Seven knew that tone; it meant he had lit on something he thought would be beneficial to her somehow, and would coax her until she complied. Better to save them both the trouble. "What is this game?"

The Doctor held up a finger and stood up. "Wait and see."

He went to the galley counter, said something to Neelix that made the Talaxian chuckle, and came back with three stainless steel mugs and a single tarra nut. He placed them all on the table in front of Seven, a Neelix-esque twinkle in his hazel eyes.

"Now, I'm going to hide the nut under one of these, whirl them around, and wager anything you like that you won't be able to find the nut again."

"Is that all?" said Seven, unable to disguise her contempt.

"Oh, it's a lot more difficult than you might think." The Doctor placed the nut underneath the middle mug. "Name your terms, Lucky Seven."

She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Neelix was watching them, suppressed amusement in every curve of his spotted face.

"If I win, Doctor, you will … monitor the children during my next duty shift." Harmless and convenient – he was fond of them, and would no doubt impart some very useful medical knowledge as well.

"And if _I_ win … " He paused a little too long, frowning at the three mugs, then looked abruptly up to meet her eyes. "If I win, you'll join me for the next shore leave. You work too hard, Seven."

"Agreed."

"All right. Now, watch." The Doctor began swirling the upside-down mugs around on the table. "Round and round they go … but be careful, my holographic hand is faster than your ocular implant! And here we are … where's the nut?"

Seven paused, sensing the Doctor's eyes on her even though hers were fixed on the mugs. She remembered the sound of his voice when he'd said, _You work too hard, Seven_. That gentle concern he always showed her. He must have noticed the fatigue she had tried so hard to disguise out of pride, the stress of caring for four very different children (sometimes five, counting Naomi) in addition to all her official duties.

Where was the nut?

"I do not know, Doctor," she said.

"Try, won't you? You're allowed one guess."

"This one?" She turned over the leftmost mug. It was empty.

The Doctor responded with the same gesture she had pointed out only moments ago. This time, however, the smugness was tinged with affection for the woman watching him across the table.

"Better luck next time, my dear."

Seven, wo did not believe she needed such an unreliable thing as luck, picked up her empty lunch tray and went to recycle it. Since she had to walk past the galley counter to reach the recycler, this put her within conversation range of a delighted Neelix.

"Out-gambitted him, eh, Seven?" he said, shading his mouth with one hand in a conspiratorial way.

"To what are you referring, Mr. Neelix?" She locked her hands behind her back and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, c'mon. He's an amateur, even I could see it." Neelix winked. "I know your game. You just go down to Astrometrics and scan for the nicest shore leave planet in the sector."

Seven winked back somberly, uncurling her left hand to reveal the tarra nut. "I will."


	22. Muse

_22. Muse_

Kelis: Behold the Doctor, Shining Voyager's physician. He may appear to be made of flesh and blood, but do not be deceived, for the Doctor is not as other Eternals. He is a hollow-gram, an artificial person created by man, immortal and invulnerable to pain. Pain of the body, that is – his soul is another matter entirely …

Doctor (_seated at table_): Chief Medical Officer's Log, Stardate 53920. I grieve for the absence of my dear friends, lost to an unknown fate far from the sheltering bulkheads of Shining Voyager. Young Harry Kim, whom I have often snatched back from the very jaws of death with my healing skills. Headstrong B'Elanna Torres, Chief Engineer, who has, in her turn, never failed to keep me in fine repair. Without her skill, what is to become of me?

_(Enter Seven of Nine, masked.)_

Doctor: (_Jumps up and places one hand over his heart._) Seven of Nine! (_Dons his mask_) Please state the nature of the medical emergency.

Seven: One of my implants is out of alignment. Correct it.

(_She shows him her left hand. He passes a tin cylinder over it._)

Doctor: This magical device called a tricorder will erase your pain in the blink of an eye. (_He places his mask on the table and kisses her hand_) Seven of Nine, my beloved, beautiful as the stars, I would take all your pain away if I could.

Seven: (_Pulls her hand away_): I am Borg. Love is irrelevant.

Doctor: You call everything irrelevant which you do not understand! Seven of Nine, I know your story. It was I who stripped the armor from your wounded body when _Voyager_ took you in as a prisoner. It was I who listened as you told the tale of a small child, torn from the arms of her loving parents, forced to join the terrible army of the Borg Collective.

(_Seven leans against the table, trembling with emotion._)

Doctor (_kneels_): Seven of Nine, my friend and my beloved! I am only a hollow-gram, a shadow of a man, without a heart and without a name. But know this: if I had a heart, it would beat only for you. If I had a name, I would be honored to hear it from your lips. Seven of Nine, listen to your heart. Is there truly no love in it for me?

Seven: (_unmasking, aside to the audience_) I do not know. I am frightened. Why must the Doctor, my most reliable ally, confront me now with these powerful emotions I cannot understand? Since the Borg Collective took me, I have never known love. I know only order, discipline, the quest for perfection. I also know hatred for Captain Janeway, who severed me from the Collective, and for B'Elanna Torres, who has constantly ruined all of my efforts to mold this ship to my own design. I have sworn an oath to destroy them. If I am to achieve that goal, there is no place in my heart for this thing called love.

_(She replaces her mask and turns to the Doctor_)

Seven: You are not a man of flesh and blood. You are nothing but a tool built to serve, like this tricorder. I will never love you, Doctor. No woman will. (_Turning her back on him_) Computer, deactivate the Emergency Medical Hologram.

Doctor: No!

(_He reaches out to her futilely, then curls up on the floor in despair. The three men of the Chorus drape a white sheet over him and carry him offstage.)_

Seven (_unmasked again, watching the spot where he stood_) Like a hearthfire banked for the night, I have caused him to fade away. Tomorrow morning he will reappear, ready to heal his comrades with a single touch. (_Picks up his tricorder, looks at it for a long moment, and lays it down on the table._) But that touch was never meant for me. Tomorrow I will destroy my enemies, and return to the longed-for perfection of the Borg Collective … Goodbye, my friend and healer. May the gods have mercy on your soul.

(_Exit stage left, slowly, looking back over her shoulder one more time._)

=/\=

"You've got to be joking," said B'Elanna, watching the rehearsal with a disbelieving shake of her head.

"Did that look like comedy to you?" Kelis the playwright, who had come to sit next to her in the front row of the stone amphitheatre, rolled his black eyes at her. "B'Elanna Torres, you are without a doubt the most demanding muse of any poet in history. What's wrong this time?"

"I thought you were making her the villain! And now she gets _another _kiss?" B'Elanna, even though she had reached a truce with the real Seven months ago, had to admit that no other crewmember fit the bill quite as well.

"And so she is. But simple villains are boring, don't you think? Having a tiny hint of possible redemption makes them so much more interesting. Not to mention more of a challenge for my lovely Lanya." Like many other directors in more modern forms of media, he had given the juiciest acting role to his girlfriend.

"Hmm. Guess you're right. But why the Doctor?"

"Didn't you say they were friends?"

"Exactly. _Friends_." She threw up her hands in exasperation. "You know, the sort of people who _can_ be in the same room together without smooching or wanting to smooch every ten seconds. It's almost as silly as Chakotay and – and the Captain."

However, even as she said the names, an uninvited memory flashed through her head – Chakotay and Janeway linking arms at a Hawaiian-themed party on the holodeck. Looking so happy and harmonious for once, that even Vorik had pointed out that they would make _"a compatible match"._ She had laughed at him, of course, but the _Voyager_ rumor mill had ground on that night for weeks.

But, really: _"What every other female officer has known – the privilege of your touch"_! Ridiculous. It made Chakotay sound like a tomcat. If he and the Captain _were_ secretly in love, B'Elanna was sure they would express it with more dignity.

"Well, Mistress B'Elanna," said Kelis, looking very put-upon, "Since you persist in keeping silent about your own lover, I have to make do with what scraps of information you give me. I _must _have a love story. It's either Seven and the Doctor, or Seven and Paris. Which would you prefer?"

That settled it. No way was she letting Seven get her cybernetic claws on Tom, even in fiction.

"Okay, Seven and the Doctor. But leave out Harry and the Delaney sisters, will you?"

_That_ was another pairing too close for comfort. Oh, the drama last year – Jenny wanting Harry, Harry wanting Megan, and all three of them miserable. How grateful she was that the Delaneys had both moved on, leaving Harry to recover somewhat before his next ill-starred affair. All that would probably inspire Kelis for at least two more dreadful plays.

"As you wish," said Kelis, bowing extravagantly.

_Thanks be to Kahless no one on _Voyager_ will be watching!_


	23. Fury

_23. Fury_

"So …_ that_ was Kes?" said Seven, inadvertently summing up the entire crew's feelings on the matter.

"Indeed it was," muttered the Doctor, slumped in his office chair in unmistakeable depression.

"The elderly telepath who just crashed her shuttlecraft into _Voyager_, left a trail of damage on her way to Engineering, and departed without explanation?" Or if she had explained, Seven thought, it was only to the Captain and Commander Tuvok – who became so forbidding whenever the topic was mentioned that it was of no use to probe further.

"Yes. And without seeing me!" The Doctor shook his head, grief beginning to mix with indignation. "I didn't even get to ask her how she is, how she spent the past few years – not very well, apparently, judging by her behavior. Did you see her face on the surveillance videos? My God, she's only seven, but she looked at least eight and a half! And _why_ didn't the Captain notify me before they came to send her off? Neelix was there, so was Tuvok. Didn't it occur to them that _I_ might want to say goodbye as well?"

Seven listened to the Doctor's outburst with increasing discomfort; he sounded more emotionally damaged than she'd seen him since the aftermath of the _Equinox_ crisis. Seven had known, in general terms, that _Voyager_'s crew had once included an Ocampa woman named Kes, who had left to hone a powerful telepathic gift at approximately the time of Seven's arrival – but not much more. Now she wanted to know everything.

"She was your first medical assistant, correct?"

"More than that!" said the Doctor passionately. "Much more. Kes and I, we … well, you might say we had a bond." He smiled crookedly. "Oh, not as lovers, if that's what you're thinking. Mr. Neelix would have decompiled me. Kes and I were each other's teachers, so to speak … I taught her how to treat patients, she taught me how to treat people."

"Social lessons?"

"Exactly! You know, during that first year, Kes was the only person on this ship who saw me as an equal. She was the one who encouraged me to expand my program … to explore new possibilities … to defend my rights as _Voyager's_ Chief Medical Officer instead of letting people deactivate me whenever they felt like it."

"She appears to have been … instrumental in your personal development."

"Oh, she was. Without her, I wouldn't be the hologram you see before you." The Doctor handed his camera to Seven. "Here. This is Kes, about a week before she left. First holoimage I ever took."

The picture showed a slender young woman in a turquoise velvet suit, standing by a computer console in Sickbay and smiling over her shoulder at the camera. Her blonde hair fell past her shoulders in fluffy curls. Her eyes were blue.

Seven had to struggle to keep her face neutral. Was this, then, the Doctor's ideal woman? The sort of small, sweet, delicate creature who, apart from her complexion (and her outfit – the Doctor had designed Seven's suits to be almost identical) – was Seven's entire opposite? She handed the camera back quickly, the image branded in her photographic memory.

The Doctor stared down at the picture for a long moment, deep wrinkles showing around his eyes and mouth.

"I don't understand, Seven. What have those years done to her? If you had only known her before … "

"How was she before?"

"She was … beautiful. In both the physical and spiritual sense. Always ready to help, whether through action or simply a listening ear."

That made her sound like Denara Pel, whom the Doctor had described to Seven in the same loving detail. Also like the impression Tincoo had made, before revealing herself as a cold, calculating individual who'd only seen the Doctor as a piece of technology.

"And curious, oh my goodnes, yes – she used to absorb the medical texts I gave her like a little sponge, and come back asking for more. Her curiosity was what got her onboard in the first place – would you believe it, that tiny woman climbed through an ancient tunnel from her people's underground home to the surface of her planet. Just to see the sky. She was a born explorer. Kazon, Vidiians, nothing ever broke that life-affirming spirit of hers. Well … not until now."

He fell into another silent reflection, and came out of it with a deeper frown than ever.

"She left _Voyager_ for our sake. She knew her powers were getting out of control; if she hadn't left, they might have destroyed the ship. She was in a state of molecular flux. If that's the way she's been spending the last three years … I couldn't even say goodbye … "

His face went down into his folded arms on the desk and stayed there. He made no sound. He seemed to have forgotten that Seven was in the room.

She approached him slowly, tentatively. She was used to dramatics from the opera-loving Doctor, but this was different; so raw and sincere, she almost felt guilty to be watching.

"Doctor … ?"

He looked up abruptly, avoiding her eyes. "Excuse me, Seven. That was … "

" … a necessary outlet for your distress. You do not need to apologize."

She knew it was the right thing to say, but she didn't entirely mean it; she wished he _would_ apologize, which she knew was entirely illogical. She wanted some sign that Kes was not the only woman to share and change the Doctor's life; that the man before her, plunged into mourning for his fallen angel, could still recognize the very mortal woman in front of him.

Social lessons, indeed. Had she ever been anything more than a replacement for Kes – and a failed one at that?

"Then I'll thank you for listening, Seven," he said, standing up and walking past her with a brief touch on her shoulder. The photonic warmth of his hand lingered there briefly as he walked through the door.

"Doctor?"

He turned in the doorway.

"Could Kes sing?"

It was an absurd question, and she regretted it the momnt it came out of her mouth. He took a step back toward her, frowning in puzzlement. "As a matter of fact, she couldn't. What's that got to do with … oh … "

Comprehension dawned on his face, and he squeezed Seven's shoulder again – longer this time.

"I never even thought of acquiring an interest in music until you came along," he said warmly. "You and that lovely Borg-enhanced voice of yours. You're the only duet partner I've ever had, or ever intend to have. Speaking of which – Holodeck Two, twenty hours? Once the children are in their alcoves?"

Seven's mouth curved into a smile before she could stop it, and she didn't even want to stop. "I will be there."


	24. Life Line

_24. Life Line_

Lieutenant Reginald Barclay knew it was impossible to slam doors in a twenty-fourth-century Terran-made building, but when _Voyager_'s Emergency Medical Hologram stormed through the doors of Dr. Lewis Zimmerman's holodeck, the effect was pretty darned close.

"Lieutenant Barclay! What in heaven's name did you mean by putting a holographic Deanna Troi in your _Voyager_ simulation?"

Reg cringed. He'd only meant to make the Doctor feel a little less homesick – and give him something to do, since Lewis was still obstinately refusing treatment. He'd forgotten all about the beautiful 'Seven of Nine'.

"I'm s – sorry, Doctor." he stammered. "Those were my – private simulations. I – mmmade some modifications – intended to fix them before … "

"She called herself Seven of Nine! And tried to _kiss_ me!"

"Yes. You weren't supposed to see that. You - _did_ - say she was attractive - "

"Look, Reg," said the Doctor, pointing an accusing finger at him, "I won't ask about what you do on that holodeck. Everybody has their 'private indulgences'. But from now on, you leave my - _student_ out of it, understood? By the way, I deleted her."

"Yessir." Reg resented the implication that he was some sort of holodeck pervert, but was still too embarrassed to protest.

"She doesn't even _look_ like Counselor Troi," the Doctor continued, striding around the cluttered lab, still shaking his head indignantly. "Or sound like her, or act like her. You couldn't have gotten her more wrong if you'd tried."

Reg, who was the closest thing Lewis Zimmerman had to a friend, recognized the signs of an incoming rant in Lewis' "son" and sat back with long-suffering patience.

"Seven of Nine is as tall as I am – and blonde, Lieutenant, _blonde._ Not like Haley, a more golden color. She's got one Borg implant on her left eyebrow, another one under her right ear – starburst-shaped – oh, and her left hand is covered with them, like a web. She's got blue eyes – a sort of medium blue, not really dark or light … violets. That's it." He snapped his fingers and whirled around to face Reg from the opposite corner of the room. Somewhere along the monologue, his anger had shifted to a sort of fiery enthusiasm.

"She does wear dermoplastic biosuits - that's one of the few things you got right. I designed them for her because she needs the extra support; after all, she spent eighteen years with a Borg exoskeleton. I did suggest replicating some clothes to wear on top of them, but for one thing it's too warm, and for another, fashion is one of the many things she considers irrelevant.

"Her voice is … well, I'd say it's in the mezzo-soprano range, though with my training she's starting to reach a little higher. She's pitch-perfect – a gift from the Borg, she says. Flawless singing technique. It's the emoting part that gives her trouble, and not only in music. Such a poker face, that woman … Makes every smile out of her feel like winning a hundred bars of latinum."

The Doctor began to smile himself.

"I'm not saying she's perfect, Reg. She's stubborn, opinionated … not to mention slightly obsessive-compulsive. That may be the Borg in her, but I'm beginning to suspect it's genetic. She insisted I get rid of _all_ nonessential subroutines before coming here. Interrupted me mid-aria to transfer my singing voice to a backup file." He chuckled. "She wanted to be absolutely certain my program would fit into that data stream."

Stubborn, opinionated and slightly obsessive-compulsive? Now if that didn't sound familiar …

"She's also fiercely loyal and protective – stopped the Captain from reprogramming me once by the sheer force of her arguments. Long story. Oh, and there were the Borg children she rescued; they pretty much adopted her as a foster-mother. It's difficult for her, but she tries – especially now she's not trying to micromanage them like little drones anymore. Er … I'm not boring you, am I, Reg? Because I could go on for hours. About any of my crewmates, I mean. Not just Seven. It's just, we've been working very closely together for almost three years and, well … never mind. Excuse me."

"Doctor," said Reg, "She sounds like … I couldn't make a hologram of her if I tried. And I'm not going to try."

"See that you don't, Reg," said a crisp, haughty, elegant tenor voice nearly identical to the Doctor's.

Reg and the Doctor both jumped and turned around. Leaning on the doorframe with both hands was Lewis Zimmerman, engulfed in a baggy purple bathrobe, his gray hair as dishevelled as its scarcity permitted. He glowered at them out of bloodshot hazel eyes. Haley, his holographic companion, peered over his shoulder.

"How's a man supposed to get any sleep with this infernal shouting?"

"You're dying. A white night or two won't kill you any quicker," the Doctor shot back, ignoring reproachful looks from Haley and Reg.

"Hmph. How disappointing." Lewis took a step closer, opened his mouth, lifted his hand as if about to say something – then dropped his hand and shook his head, snorting again. "I can't believe you fell for another blonde. I didn't _program_ you for that."

The Doctor, too angry to speak, let out an incoherent sputter. Lewis ignored him and shambled out of the room, waving away Haley's attempt to take his arm. She remained with Reg and the Doctor instead, demurely clasping her hands in front of her as she noticed their unspoken question.

It was the Doctor who said it out loud. "_Another_ blonde?"

"When Lewis was a student at San Francisco University, he became engaged to a Starfleet cadet named Haley Callaghan," she said, calm and matter-of-fact as ever. "She was killed on her first mission in space. If you look up the yearbook file for 2319, you'll find she looked exactly like me. Goodnight, gentlemen."

She was a blue-eyed blonde, petite and fragile, her hair cut to the level of her chin. Her plum-colored dress (Lewis' choice or hers?) was clearly not a uniform. Neither the Doctor nor Reg dared to ask her how she felt about being the second Haley Callaghan; the answer was obvious in the tight set of her lips, the weariness of her eyes. She turned on her heel and walked out on them, not rudely, but unmistakeably letting them know that the conversation was over.


	25. The Haunting of Deck Twelve

_25. The Haunting of Deck Twelve_

"Please state the nature of the – ugh, good heavens ... "

When the Doctor came back online, it was too dark to see the hand in front of his face. The orange emergency lighting strips glowered from their usual corner, almost blinding him. He began to feel around for something – a biobed, a table, a computer console … a flashlight flared up right in front of him, illuminating the blue-and-golden figure of Seven of Nine. He jumped.

"Computer," she said, "Activate sickbay lights."

The lights flashed on, and the Doctor made a mental note to ask B'Elanna for some adjustments to his optical subroutines. When he opened his eyes, Sickbay was itself again – gray and white, sterile and familiar – and Seven, in her blue suit, as lovely as ever.

"So how'd it go?" he asked, referring to a certain risky procedure which had been the reason for their shipwide power shutdown in the first place.

"The creature is off the ship and safely installed in its nebula."

"Thank the saints, as my parishioners would say. And the crew?"

"All unharmed. Mr. Neelix entertained the children in Cargo Bay Two so they would not be frightened. I would have been with them, but my presence was required in Astrometrics."

"Well, that was nice of him. I do hope he won't replace me as primary storyteller, though," he half-joked.

"Unlikely. Icheb remarked that Mr. Neelix's tale was scientifically inaccurate."

"Trust Icheb for that."

The Doctor, finding his tricorder in convenient reach on a nearby table, picked it up, ready to scan her if necessary. "And how are _you_, Seven?"

"Functioning within normal – " He gave her a look. "Fine," she amended. "Thank you."

"I know you … don't particularly care for dark places."

As a child, before being assimilated, Seven had been afraid of the dark.

Seven met his eyes calmly. "This is _Voyager_, Doctor. I carried a flashlight and was accompanied by the Captain. Besides, I have become accustomed to regenerating in a dark cargo bay each night. Since the children's arrival, that environment has become my home. Darkness itself is not a problem for me, Doctor, as long as I know what lies inside it."

"I see." He really did. He put down the tricorder, nodded to her, and began working on an experiment which the shutdown had interrupted. Several sentimental thoughts involving Seven, darkness and light inevitably floated through his cognitive processors; he was a doctor, not a poet, but sometimes he simply couldn't resist.

She _was, _after all, the light of his world.


End file.
